


DA040: A Guild-ed Cage

by Rhion



Series: A Guild-ed Cage [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: AU, Adventure, Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Zev never went to Ferelden. Now, Miolanai finds herself in Antiva. Master Ignacio assigns her a bodyguard and guide. A guide who just so happens to have been friends with the Crow she killed so long ago during the beginnings of the Blight. FTabris/Zev</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

XXX  
Guild-ed 1  
XXX

It was...a hard thing, being a Warden. In some ways, far easier than she could have ever imagined, in others...it almost made her long for the hemp noose to have been wrapped around her neck rather than leaving her to this fate. She and the others had faced down bandits, darkspawn, soldiers, monsters and werewolves, ancient witches and fallen heroes. No matter their strength, in the end, there was one foe only she and Alistair could truly face. They had been friends – close friends – but nothing more. He and the others were family, as close as she could get to it after having left the Alienage. Miolanai had been prepared to die in his stead – that is what one did for family, take on the burdens others couldn't handle – but he had begged to take the last blow.

His reasons made sense: he would always be a pawn, a threat to Anora's rule. She would eventually have him killed because of this. His other reason, though, had been that he wasn't strong enough to live without her beside him. Miolanai had known of his feelings, but she always waved them off. Alistair had taken long enough to tell her that she was the sort who could survive and make a life for herself, while he simply could not. Ultimately she allowed him to take the blow, not for those reasons, but because she was scared.

Two months healing of body did nothing for the mind. Another year and a half serving in Amaranthine also did nothing to heal her in places that spells could not reach. The cold of Ferelden was bitter, not in temperature, but in soul, and so she stared at the _shem_ messenger who had come after she sent her missive to far-off Antiva. _A Crow_.

How many of his ilk had she killed? Had this one known of the one who had been sent to kill her and Alistair, and their merry little band of crazies and disaffected misfits? It was possible. This one stood in that patient, still way that she always would associate with an assassin. He was nameless, unremarkable but for that intensity, and was to serve as guide to Antiva City, where Master Ignacio now resided, having moved far up in the Guild.

After a most uneventful trip over water, she found that the warm air was heavy and muggy with moisture and a riot of unfamiliar smells. Miolanai also found she was quite tired. No matter that the whole trek over the water had taken a month, she was still exhausted. Coupled with the extreme difference in weather, she was all done in, no matter that she had had plenty of time to acclimate slowly to the change in light and temperature. At the least she had stayed in fighting form, making use of her fellow rogues that she found in Captain Isabella and the Crow, who had rarely spoken to her at all. If she didn't know better, she would think he couldn't speak Common. Lucky for her that everyone considered Fereldans too dim to learn more than their native tongue – truly they were simply too stubborn – and so the language she had grown up knowing was the established trade tongue. 

And now, in spite of her fatigue, she was following the, even now, nameless Crow to where Ignacio was to be waiting for her.

XXX

The villa was far less opulent than Miolanai had expected of a Crow Master. Yes, it had high walls that separated it from the street traffic, and she could hear the tinkling of fountains that were inset in the entrance. There were marble tiles that paved the floor in a mottled, formless mosaic of good taste, and the columns were sheathed in the same stone. Other than that, she found that it was rather...simple. Everything she had read led her to believe that the wealthy would showcase everything in a splendor that would rival anything a Fereldan noble could hope to acquire.

Her Crow guide walked ahead of her, leading her to an inner atrium, and _that_ was where opulence reigned supreme, if one could think of beautiful plants and a pond with a fountain at its center as being 'opulent'. Even so, it was breathtaking. 

Ignacio rose from the bench he had been sitting on, arms held open to her, a broad smile on his face. “Ah, my dear Warden, you have finally arrived.”

Miolanai accepted the embrace and clumsily returned the kiss on each cheek the old man gave her. “Was that ever in doubt? You should know by now that when I say I will do something, I do it.”

“Haha, yes, it _is_ good to see you my dear; I have missed your refreshing honesty.” He held her at arm’s length, then guided her to sit on the bench he had just vacated. “I trust your journey was a comfortable one?”

Nodding, she watched as he gestured for a servant – slave, most likely – to open a fresh bottle of wine and pour two glasses of the blood red liquid. “As comfortable as could be expected, I suppose. I don't think I'm much cut out for seafaring. Too rough on the stomach,” she added, ruefully.

“Oh, now that is a shame my dear, that is just simply too bad.” He tutted to himself and sipped his wine. “You would make a fine pirate, I would think, if given the chance.”

“Well, I'm glad to be on solid ground once more.” She carefully took a slow taste of the wine. 

Not that she thought it would be poisoned; Ignacio didn't seem the type to do something like that, not when there was no profit in it. Honor amongst rogues was a strange affair, but it was there. Even killers had to trust someone at their back, sometimes. No, Miolanai just didn't have a taste for wine; she preferred strong spirits that would strip rust from armor, if she were to bother drinking.

Ignacio gestured at the plate of fresh fruit and cheese on the table set between them. “Please, help yourself. Do not stint, my dear; you are too thin. Truly, I should take Captain Isabella to task for not feeding you enough.”

She shifted somewhat uncomfortably – she wasn't very good in such nice, social settings. “No, no, she was quite accommodating.” Clearing her throat, she continued, “Ignacio, I am grateful for your hospitality, but shouldn't we get down to business?”

He blinked several times, before letting out a deep belly laugh. “Ah! I always forget how hurried you Fereldans are. Well then, I suppose it couldn't hurt.” The bald man cocked his head. “But this is a new country for you, and its ways are vastly different from your own. Some would be easily offended at your straightforwardness.”

Shrugging, the elf was unapologetic. “I am what I am.”

“Hmm, yes...yes you are,” he agreed, nodding sagely. “This would be why I wish to offer you the services of one of my finest. My fair Antiva, it is an interesting place, filled with many interesting dangers for one such as yourself. So, as a friend, I will give you one of my Crows. He can translate for you, he can guide you through the many intricate nuances of this fine country, as well as protect you, both from other Guild members sent by other Masters, as well as the more mundane things. Not only that, but he could certainly stand around and look pretty for you.”

Taken aback, Miolanai protested, “A guide? Look, Ignacio, I appreciate it, but really, I am more...inclined to look for work as it were.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “You are well known, and while your skills, as they are, are fine – excellent, indeed – you would make a poor assassin in the games of politics here. Though, if you should happen to hear of...interesting things...during the many meetings you are sure to have with people here, I would be most appreciative of hearing such tales.” A smile came back over his face quickly, and he snapped his fingers. “Zevran!”

From out of the shadows in the corner of the atrium garden stepped an elf. He was golden, tanned to a deep bronze, his hair the colour of ripe wheat, and as he came closer, dipping a bow, Miolanai saw that his eyes, too, were golden. Not the pale gibbous yellow that Morrigan's had been, but deep and dark, the way some of the purest honey could be. 

Needlessly, Ignacio introduced him. “This is Zevran. He is to be yours, and serve all your needs, as long as you have need of or wish him to.”

XXX

He was a golden shadow that radiated an intensity Miolanai had never felt before, and he was walking beside her, never betraying a single thought on his chiseled features. His lush mouth had said not a word, silent as the Crow who had led her to Ignacio had been. Somehow, though, with the lines at the corners of his mouth and his eyes, she thought that was an unnatural state for him. It seemed like he was probably more accustomed to laughter, to cover the veiled poison in his veins. 

Well, at least she knew this Crow's name.

“Where is it, exactly, that we're going?” she finally asked. 

It wasn't much that she cared, she was armed to the teeth, after all. Really, she was more curious than anything, to find out what his voice was like. A voice and its inflections would give more away than movement, at least in someone as measured as this 'Zevran' was – or, at the very least, she hoped so.

He glanced at her once, giving a lazy blink of eyes that reflected oddly in the setting sun's light. “Master Ignacio put aside a set of apartments for your use, until you decide to move elsewhere.” Zevran came to a stop, and passersby parted around them, as he pointed to the west. “Five streets that way. It is not so far, but if it is your wish to stop for a rest, there is a cafe up ahead where you would find acceptable fare.”

Miolanai almost hissed at the sound of his voice. It burned like scotch, his lyrical accent rolling the words around in his mouth as though he were savoring the strong liquor. He was golden hot, blazing like melted metal and sunlight cast in shadow. 

Rather than admit to any fatigue on her part – best not to appear weak in front of a creature like him – she asked, “Are you hungry? If you are that would be alright. Otherwise, five streets doesn't sound like too much of a trek for someone who hiked across Ferelden and back enough times to make a map.”

His lips twisted into a smirk before that slipped from his face rapidly. “I could eat, however the food in the cafe below your apartment is better. It is run by the Guild, after all, so its food has to be good.”

“The Guild runs...a cafe?” she asked, startled, even as they resumed walking.

He nodded once as his pace slowed. “Business ventures make for excellent training grounds. Murder is good money, but if we were constantly taking out contracts, there would be few people left to kill by now.”

“Well, that's a practical outlook.” Snorting, Miolanai settled in to walk beside him, allowing herself to relax, somewhat.

Zevran was almost a head and a half taller than she, and his earlier strides were long. So, Miolanai was grateful that he had slowed, especially since she had yet to fully regain her land legs. Sooner than she would have thought, they were entering a whitewashed building that was several stories high, decorated in bright blue, yellow, red and purple trim on every available edge. The Warden had yet to examine her surroundings much, more interested in weighing this odd companion, trusting him to be fully aware of what was going on around them enough that anything being amiss would register quickly.

When they came to the end of a hall, he held a hand out, motioning for her to stay back. Before she could ask, he shook his head, moving on silent feet to listen at the door. With a nod of satisfaction he picked the lock – not anywhere near as quickly as she could, but he managed – and then opened the door. He slipped in, and she pulled stealth and shadow around her, following. Either he knew something she didn't, or he was overly cautious. Not that it was a bad thing in a city that thrived on murder and intrigue. Watching as he quickly moved through the rooms, checking under a bed, behind the sofas, in the armoires and water closet, Miolanai waited to drop her shadows until she got the go-ahead.

He gave the room one last scan as he prowled back to the door, and his eyes skipped over her for a moment, before coming back to her quickly. He waved a hand, assuring her, “All is clear. You may unstealth now.”

“I would ask if that was paranoia or caution, on your part,” she remarked, raising an eyebrow, “But I've always subscribed to the belief that being paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get you.” 

“A wise viewpoint,” he replied, inclining his head. “Shall I send for food now?”

Miolanai glanced around and gave a shrug. “What's it like downstairs? I'm a little sick of having my meals brought to me like I'm some pampered princess.”

“If that is your wish, but downstairs may be...crowded.” The way he said it made Miolanai feel that it was probably wisest if she took his advice on that.

After all, this was a nest of Crows, even though she supposed she was as safe here as anywhere else in Antiva City. Pursing her lips, the elf dropped her pack by one of the low sofas; it had intricate carving all over the wood and was upholstered in bright blues and silvers. Really, she had never seen anything like this apartment, and the furniture itself was...magnificent. Each thing was a lovely piece of artwork, from the round, half barrel chair and the footstools, to the low table that had tiles inlaid in a starburst. Miolanai couldn't take it all in at once and shut her eyes for a moment, before clinging to the fact that furniture was furniture, no matter how pretty it was.

Clearing her throat, she began to take off her baldrics. “Whatever you want, then. I've got a big enough appetite that I could even be tempted to eat a whole pot of Alistair's 'lamb and pea' stew, at this point.”

“I do not believe I have heard of such a dish, but I will ask if you like.” Zevran came up beside her quietly, stooping to take her pack from her. He carried it into one of the other rooms. “There is an armor stand in here for you, if you choose to make use of it.”

She laughed. “Oh no, anything in this world is better than Alistair's cooking was! Whatever you recommend would be good, I'd think. Ultimately, it'd be a damn sight better than what I used to eat.” She had been just about ready to flop onto the sofa, but followed him instead. “I feel like I haven't had a single day out of this getup since the Blight started.”

As she entered, she saw that he was opening a large armoire, its doors carved in a pierced latticework of geometric twisting designs. Her pack was on the bed, already open, clearly ready to have its contents put away, which the Crow seemed to be doing, presently. 

“You don't have to do that.” Reaching out, Miolanai took from him a set of folded clothes that he was about to tuck into a drawer. “I don't need a servant. You're my guide, not my slave.”

“I am here to assist you however you need, and you seem tired.” A flicker of something flashed in his amber eyes, too fast for her to catch what it was. This time when he took the clothes from her, she let him. “You should make yourself comfortable. This is Antiva City, not Ferelden during a Blight. You are a guest and should enjoy it. Life's rare pleasures are fleeting, and only the foolish waste them.”

She blinked slowly up at him in surprise. “You're right, but I don't feel right having others serve me in that sort of capacity. Especially not a....” She trailed off.

_Not an elf._

“A Crow?” he supplied, tilting his head to one side. The sway of the motion revealed one, well-shaped ear clearly, and the three gold hoops in the lobe, and two near tip.

Gold, gold, gold, _gold_. Everywhere she looked at him, there was gold. Was it inescapable? _Not all that glitters is gold...._

Shaking her head, “No. I don't care about that. I'm from Denerim's Alienage, and I hate seeing elves treated as servants. Too few of them got fair wages, we lived in squalor and filth. I suppose,” she admitted, frowning, “that old habits die hard.” Sighing, she waved a hand at her pack and the armoire. “Let's say we just do this together, then?”

Zevran's lips curled, almost in a tolerant smile. “It will be done more quickly if I do this myself. Why not remove your armor and put something comfortable on? Worry not that I'll attack you, for it is worth more than my life if I were to do so, yes?”

Taken aback, she stared at him. “Why would I think you would attack me?”

To this he snorted, resuming unpacking her things. “I am a Crow. You say such things to put my ego at ease, but I assure you that I am not easily offended. To be sure, only a stupid man would attack you, and I have never counted that as one of my many faults.” He didn't even pause as he removed one of her larger pouches of gems, setting it aside as he said, “This is not Ferelden, we are cultured, we do not...sit about in our armor in our places of rest waiting for an attack. They will come whether we are armed or not, and being armed is rarely of any assistance.”

“I wouldn't think you would attack me without cause.” Grunting, she finally gave in to the need to be rid of her dragonskin leathers for a little while. Unbuckling and untying various parts, she quickly put them over the armor stand. “But I suppose you're right, might as well be comfortable. Does the same rule apply to you?” Jerking her chin, she encompassed the deep sable of his leathers. “Or are you staying elsewhere?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she found herself watching the way his hands moved over hangers, shaking out clothes that were rumpled before setting them on the bar. “My place is by your side until such a time as you see fit to no longer require my presence. Where you go, I go. Where you stay, I stay. Where you eat, I eat.”

Laughing softly at that, she took the proffered tunic and trews from him. “Yes, well, wouldn't want the country bumpkin from the back alleys of Ferelden bumbling around in such a place as this, unescorted.”

“I hardly think you are a bumpkin.” Once he was finished with his self-appointed task – he had been right, he did get it done faster than she would have – he leaned casually against the armoire. “Ignorant of Antiva's ways, yes. ‘Bumpkin’ would mean you come from the countryside, while being from back alleys would mean you were from a city. You cannot be both.”

Sitting on the bed, Miolanai worked her boots off with a relieved sigh. “Oh please, you and I both know that when anyone thinks of Ferelden, they think of country bumpkins. So, I can be both a backwater redneck _and_ a gutter rat.”

“May I be frank?” Instantly, he fell upon her boots and set them under her armor.

“May you be Frank? And here I thought your name was Zevran...” she joked, needling him just a little. He was making too easy a target, and like she had said before – old habits die hard. Some don't die at all.

There was a twitch around his lips, like he had quickly smothered a laugh. “Zev, to my friends.”

Sticking her hand out from her seated position, she introduced herself. “And I'm 'Mio' to my friends.”

His grip was strong, calloused, and warm – a fighter’s hand – as he took her hand in his, pulling her up. “Ah-ha, and do you know what that means in Antivan, my dear?”

“No,” she responded, shaking her head. “I don't know any Antivan at all.”

“Mph, it means 'mine'.” He released her hand and motioning for her to return to the sitting room. “I shall go now and seek something for our repast.”

After he left, Miolanai took the time to actually take in her apartment without fear of appearing foolish before the obviously dangerous man who was to be her guide. Miolanai was good at acting impervious to luxury; she had to learn that during the Blight when faced with so many nobles and wealthy merchants. It was just a mask, for in the Alienage there were no luxuries beyond friendship and family. So she went to the door and finally looked at everything. Shimmering whitewashed walls, with tile borders in blue and yellow running at the base and near the ceiling, traveled the entirety of the sitting room. The sitting room itself was large, rugs lying thick upon the floor, and Miolanai fell to a quick squat, pulling the dense fabric back to see what sort of flooring lay beneath it. Dark wood planks, smoothed and vibrant, silkily soft, met her questing hand. Smiling at the sensation, Miolanai stroked the floor like a cat. It seemed that even something so simple as a floor was a piece of fine craftsmanship in this warm country.

Gently settling the rugs back in place, but not before tracing one of the flower and starbursts of the woven pattern, Miolanai scanned the room. When she was in the Palace at Denerim or Arl Eamon's estate, she had thought she knew what beauty and good craftsmanship was. In comparison, Ferelden trappings were heavy and clunky. Rising, she went to the low sofa she had originally intended to sit on and knelt, giving the brocade the same treatment she had granted the floor. Delicately rough knotwork was a a bumpy map under her palms, and Miolanai smiled in delight. Blues that were as dark as night blended with pale sky so light as to be almost white were interwoven with silvery threads. 

Starbursts and flowers were the pervasive theme everywhere she looked. The cushions were thick and heavy, giving lightly when she pressed down on them. Chewing her lip, the elf turned and stroked the table that was nestled between the two sofas and chair that surrounded it in a horseshoe. It was cool to the touch, and so smooth, she couldn't detect any joints between the inlays of lighter wood and tile, and the surrounding materials. 

Her gentle, meek father would have killed to get his hands on something so fine. He probably hadn't even thought something like this could even be made. Perhaps she should find out if she could buy something like this and have it sent to Cyrion. It had been a long time since she had done anything for the man who had sired her; she had never truly been a creature of his loins, no matter how she and others pretended otherwise. Adaia's blood ran far too thick in her veins, the long dead woman having gifted Miolanai with a name, life, personality and skills. It was strange to her that the women of her family were always far more headstrong than the men, but maybe that was because only a meek man would do for women who were all willpower and backbone.

Sighing at the turn of her thoughts, the Warden shook it off. There was more to touch and explore and _smell_. Everything in the room was thick with the scent of something honey sweet and spicy. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, as far as her lungs could go, savoring the way her senses were swamped. Tiny moments like this were fleeting and to be relished as much as possible. In that, Zevran was right – they were in easy agreement, there. She went to the carved wooden screen; it looked so ethereal as to not even be real. Some sort of horned, halla-like creatures were etched and pierced through the wood, the scene showing grazing animals and crows circling overhead, under a sun that was more like a fifteen-pointed star than anything else. It was just breathtaking. The amount of time someone had to spend on something like this was mind-boggling. 

Finally, she peeked around the screen and saw a desk and chair. These, too were as covered in artwork as everything else. Was nothing simple here? Not that she minded. Somehow, it didn't feel gaudy, though, in spite of all the details that covered every inch of portable furnishings. If something in Ferelden had even attempted reflect any of what went on here – even in something so normal as a candle holder – it would come off as overdone and heavy-handed. But there weren't candle holders, just strange blocks and triangles and wall sconces that had little oil lamps in them. The vibrant shades were easily removed, revealing clay containers and wicks.

For a moment, Miolanai almost found herself skipping back to her bedroom. This country was so foreign, but not in the dark, foreboding way Orzamar had been, nor the stifling manner of Ferelden. It was merely delightful, like a playground of light and warmth and sea breezes. Curbing her desire to race to the bedroom, Miolanai entered it, fingers tracing the strangely peaked and bulbous shape of the door – it was no mere rectangle, but like a candle with a fat flame at its top. There was a window – a paned window, at that – that she swung open. Outside it was a flower-box that had colorful red and purple flowers in it, and below she saw the wide alley or narrow street, she wasn't sure which it was. 

The bedroom itself was small when compared to the front room, but it held the armoire, armor stand and bed comfortably. The bed made her really want to just jump into it, roll up in the pink and blue covers and go to sleep. Overhead there was some gauzy net made of sheer lavender material, its use unfathomable, as it was no good for keeping out light. Sighing, now that she was done with her exploration – she didn't dare go to the bed, for fear of simply passing out – Miolanai flopped gracelessly onto one of the couches, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. If this was what all of Antiva was like, she never, ever wanted to leave. 

She wouldn't have gotten up again, but calls of nature demanded she do so. Heaving herself back up with a groan, she went into the room and stopped dead. Tiles, tiles _everywhere_ , floor-to-ceiling – even the ceiling was tiled and pierced by a window to the sky that bathed the room in clear light. There was green and blue and purple everywhere she looked. A large teal ceramic basin sat perched on a marble pedestal, with taps shaped like fish and a mirror – a _mirror_ – hanging over it. Round with acid-etched designs shaded in crimson and lavender around the edges, it was so clear; she had never seen something like it at all. It held her image – wide, green eyes under frequently knife-chopped white hair, pale face flushed with awe, the raspberry of her overfull lips opened in an 'o' of surprise and pleasure. Reaching out, she traced her image, not quite daring to touch the glass, for fear of smudging it. Shuddering once, she looked away and spied what she assumed was the chamberpot, but it was more like a bowl in the ground that had a funny basin on one side and a lever. Curiously she pulled the lever and jumped when water roared through it, sucking down the water that had been held in the bowl. She was supposed to squat over that thing and go? 

Quickly the awestruck and slightly intimidated Warden went about her business, sparing the bathtub only a small glance. It was tiled, just like everything else, and more spigots hung over it, one handle red, the other a cool blue. Not only that, but the thing looked like it could have fit three of her in it. Shuddering again, Miolanai went back to the sitting room and plunked down once more. Her heart was racing in a mixture of rapture and a tiny thrill of fear. She had been right when she told Zevran that she was a country bumpkin and gutter rat rolled into one. This place, no matter how much she liked it, sort of drove that point home in a way she was unused to.

True to his word, Zevran returned, a large tray hoisted high on his shoulder. While the smell was divine, it certainly looked precarious; however, he carried it with ease, the tendons of one forearm standing in sharp relief beneath the bronzed skin the only sign that he was carrying more weight than a simple book. She half suspected he took awhile so as to give her the chance to familiarize herself with her surroundings, but she didn't know the assassin well enough to be sure. Before she could stand to assist him, he was carefully setting the tray onto the table between the couches. 

It was a brief struggle to not open her eyes wide at the array of food, which was as colorful as everything else in this place. Most of it, Miolanai couldn't even begin to identify, so she didn't try.

She blinked rapidly as he pulled off the conical top of some terracotta thing, revealing some sort of stew that made her mouth water. “So you've heard of Wardens copious appetites huh?”

“Oh? No, I must confess I have not.” He set aside various lids, and unstacked six tall glasses – made of glass, not metal or wood, nor even bone or clay – that were red and yellow near the lips, fading into pure clear crystal at the bottom. “I was unsure of what sorts of things you might like, so chose some variety.”

Too hungry to care much for niceties, Miolanai grabbed one of the spoons and scooped up some of the stew from the terracotta pot. Blowing on it once, she then shoved the spoon in her mouth. The initial explosion of flavor was overpowering and exquisite. Making a little sound of joy, she took no note of Zevran's expression of surprise. That is, until heat bloomed over her tongue, setting fire to her mouth, making her throat constrict in pain. Dropping the spoon, she clutched at her neck, eyes wide and panicked.

“Poison!” she exclaimed, gasping and gagging as she bent double.

The assassin came to sit beside her, patting her back firmly. “Tchk, no it is not poison. Peppers. I apologize. I was about to tell you that you should take it slow, the flavors may be too spicy at first. Here have some –”

Before he could finish, Miolanai grabbed one of the glasses filled with water, downing it in frenzied gulps, which only cooled her mouth for a moment. Whimpering, she grabbed for another glass, but Zevran stopped her, passing her one that was filled with the steamy milky drink he had poured from the silver teapot. Was he crazy? She needed something to cool the fire, not make it hotter! But anything was better than the riot going on in her mouth, so she gulped that down too.

Beside her the Crow sighed audibly, shaking his head, and slowly began rubbing his forehead in circles.

“I was about to tell you to take some yogurt,” he said, speaking slowly, and suddenly there was a spoon held before her mouth, overflowing with something white with chunks of something else in it. “It will settle your stomach and the fire. Clear things only bring the oils to the surface of the stomach, so that they can burn your throat.”

Opening her mouth, Miolanai accepted the spoonful of “yogurt” and found that he was right. The fire was gone within seconds, and her stomach stopped burning as well. Sighing in relief, she wiped at the sweat on her brow.

Wincing, she mumbled, “Sorry, I probably look really stupid right now.”

An amused smile graced his face, looking far more natural for the moment than he had when they met earlier. “‘Stupid’ is not the word I would choose, Warden. Headstrong, or perhaps impatient. Hasty? Yes, hasty would be an excellent word. So _urgent_.”

Laughing, she elbowed him a little. “Well you'll just have to tell me what all this stuff is. Where I come from, soup is soup, you just eat it and be grateful for it.”

“Ah, then you are about to gain an education.” He pointed to a bowl of small, round, blackish-purple things. “Olives. They have a sharp pungent taste. Careful of the pits. You merely spit them out, do not attempt to eat them if you value your teeth.”

Selecting one of the thumbnail sized objects she ate it cautiously. “Tastes... strange.”

“Perhaps an acquired taste, but they are everywhere here,” he said, waving a hand to encompass Antiva at large. “Oil is pressed from them that is then used in many things, from cooking to skin care.” He gestured at the basket of breads. “You use this to scoop some of the tagine and a bit of rice, and eat it that way. Spoons are mostly a consideration for foreigners unfamiliar with Antivan cuisine. Most things are eaten with fingers.” Demonstrating by using two fingers and thumb, he snagged some rice, depositing it easily in his mouth, not spilling any or looking messy at all. “We use this,” he said, dipping his fingers in a shallow bowl filled with water, “to remove any residue from the food, before selecting something else.”

“What's tag-nee?” she asked, attempting to copy his movements with the rice. The rice itself was a wild collection of some dried fruits, peas, carrots, and what looked like sticks that revealed itself to be cinnamon, when she got it close enough to pick out the individual smells.

Zevran tore off a thin strip of bread, folding it and using it to pick out some of the stew she had earlier accosted her mouth with. “This. It is a stew that is prepared in this dish; meats, vegetables and herbs are simmered in it slowly. The shape of the cone keeps the moisture in, and as it becomes steam, the top collects it, the water trickling slowly back down to the pot.”

Wary, she squinted at it. “I don't think I should eat that...”

He made a minute shrug. “The yogurt. Use it like this. It should be manageable then.” He held out some of the bread, which he then topped with some of the tagine, followed by rice, and a little dollop of yogurt.

Trying it, she made a happy sound. “Oh, that _is_ good! And it doesn't make me feel like I'm a dragon lady!”

Tucking into the food, once she got the hang of it, she watched her fellow elf from the corner of her eye, mimicking everything he did. Half-starved, Miolanai set upon the meal, leaving vast empty spaces everywhere she went on the platter. The milky tea Zevran poured after she sat back with a contented sigh, patting her stomach, eyes partially closed, was sweet and spiced. Antiva seemed mad for spices, as well as decoration. 

“I have...never seen a woman set to so,” he commented, sipping slowly from his glass.

Yawning, stretching as she did so, she sighed with pleasure. “Hmm...this was a good lunch size. If I had been _really_ hungry, I could have eaten most of that.”

A flitter of shock was masked quickly, but she caught it. “Ah. This was a spread usually for three or four men. I only brought so much as I was unsure of what you might like.”

“Really?” Yawning again and covering her mouth, she squinted at him. “Alistair would have polished this off in one go. That is, if he could have stomached anything that didn't taste like dirty socks.”

The Crow shifted, clearly deciding if he should hazard any questions. “A former lover perhaps?”

Snorting, she savored the spicy milk tea slowly. “Alistair? Ha. No. More like a big brother. He...he's the one who took the last blow to the Archdemon.”

“Ah.” He nodded, a depth of meaning in that single sound, then he leaned forward, rearranging the contents of the tray. “Perhaps you would like to rest for awhile. I shall take this back down to the kitchens and return. That is, unless you require anything else?”

Rubbing the back of her neck, she muffled yet another yawn. “Mmmno. I'm fine, thank you very much, Zevran. I'll wait until you come back. Twitchy sleeper and all that, you know?”


	2. Chapter 2

XXX  
Guild-ed 2  
XXX

He had absolutely no idea what to do with the Hero of Ferelden. On one hand, there were his orders: protect at all costs, guide through the intricate dance of politics and intrigue, gather information she might miss and impart it to her. Master Ignacio had basically given him away to a free-agent Master-level Crow, for that was to be the status of the Hero within the Guild. While it wasn't unheard of for a person that had never been trained by the Guild to be accepted as a highly proficient fighter and as a free agent member, it was rare, and no such position had ever been granted to someone who knew so little of Antiva. There had been several Rivaini in somewhat recent memory and the rare Tevinter. Never someone from such a backwards place as Ferelden. Nor from Orlais – there was no such thing as a true free agent Bard from that nest of poisonous third-rate crooners. 

But what was unheard of, was...giving, for all intents and purposes, a highly trained, top-level Crow to one of these free agents. Ignacio, that wily little weasel, had basically done this by not putting a time limit at all upon the lending of 'guide' and 'bodyguard'. The _shemlen_ probably thought that Zevran craved elevation in status, such as the sort gained by killing his Master. And so Ignacio had taken down two things with one fell swoop, keeping an eye on the Warden and fending off a potential threat at the same time. Here Zevran had thought he had ingratiated himself enough to avoid being killed or traded off like most of the others that had been part of his original cell. 

Right before the end of the Blight, Ignacio had returned to Antiva, triumphant and secure in his position, and killed Zevran's original master, Yago, taking over easily. He then proceeded to ignore the contract that had still been out for the Wardens, which had been purchased by the now-dead Loghain and Howe. Of course, it was Ignacio's prerogative to do such, but it was frowned upon. Except no one in the Guild was saying anything – the Guild well knew what could have happened with an unchecked Blight, and so showed grace where it could. Even so.... 

Sighing in aggravation, the bronzed elf dropped the tray off in the kitchens and made his way back to the Warden's assigned apartment. It wasn't lavish at least, and quite tasteful, similar to his own tastes, actually. That was one of Ignacio's hallmarks. Gilding everything was not his style. Professionalism was a must – Ignacio's Crows were to be enigmatic, calm and measured, except when off-duty or if a contract called for something else. For Zevran, such a thing wasn't his usual _modus operandi_. He excelled at warmth, drawing in everyone like a moth to a flame, be they Crow or mark or just a person on the street. It made his life easier, made him less of a target, let others think he was too stupid and too busy futtering to have any serious thoughts in his head or the ability to be dangerous. Strangely though, he was still well-known within the Guild, and there had been the occasional inquiry from his peers and lessers as to the reasons behind his not having a cell of his own. There had been offers to join him if he had decided to collect a cell, but every time Zevran had simply smiled and changed the subject.

It was how he had survived thus far, and probably the only reason Ignacio had spared him the assignments that would lead to his untimely demise, the way other Crows from his cell had been handled. True, he had proved his loyalty as well – what was another master to Zevran? Just someone who told him who to kill, where to go, and he had no interest in doing more than that. Even so, Ignacio was far from stupid and was correct that if Zevran had wanted to become a Crow Master – rather than simply remain at his current level – he could. 

But there was still the matter of the Warden Miolanai – and the contract that, while technically active, was for all intents and purposes not – and the minor fact that since Taliesin and his band had so clearly failed in their attempt on the Warden's life, it meant that she had been the one to kill Zevran's long-time friend and his first apprentice, at that. There was a certain...honour...amongst killers, and it demanded he do something. However, he could not. Here he was, bound and commanded to protect – at all costs – the very person whom his every instinct told him to kill.

It was definitely a troublesome predicament.

Making sure to keep his tread upon the stairs near the apartments audible, Zevran entered the sitting room. He half expected the Warden to have fallen asleep, with all that theatrical yawning she had been doing, but no, she was up, staring through the open door of the watercloset. While the Crow had come across Fereldans before, they had mostly been wealthy or dockhands – two very different sets of people. The wealthy knew how to move about Antiva's finer establishments, while Zevran had associated with the dockhands mostly to pump them for information, and he never had to wonder if they knew the basics of civilization. This Warden, on the other hand, was like a curious child, ignorant and impatient. Smothering the glower that wished to break free, he wondered for a moment if he would have to show her how to work the facilities.

Instead, she turned, leaning a shoulder on the door frame, and said conversationally, “You know, the only times I saw running water were in Orzammar and in my personal quarters at Vigil's Keep, and that was just for the tubs.” Crossing her arms she jerked her chin towards the bath, “But there's a privy, a bath and even a washbasin here with spigots. Is everywhere here like that?”

A sigh of relief tickled the back of his throat, but he covered it with a cough – at least he wouldn't have to explain the bathroom to her, “Most. Not all flats have them, but many have them at least in the building, usually one set for each floor. And if that is not the way of it, then there are the public baths which are on every seventh or eighth corner.”

He watched as her green eyes grew round, lending her already youthful appearance a veneer of childlike surprise, “ _Public_ baths?”

“Yes,” he refrained, just barely, from drawing the word out in vague irritation, feeling as though he were speaking to a simpleton. “Public baths are a social setting, often. There are pools with hot water, some with cold, while others are a mix of the two.”

“That seems a waste, I mean, what if there's a bunch of customers? What do they do, just bathe together?” There was disbelieving confusion all over her face, lips twisted and brow furrowed as though she were trying to imagine something like that.

Counseling himself to patience, Zevran took a deep, fortifying breath. Ignorant child, indeed. Stupidity was one of those things he loathed in others; no amount of half-pleasing looks could make up for brains that were similar to mashed potatoes. Licking his lips, he replied, “That is exactly what they do.” 

“Everybody does? All together? Dear Maker, that would _scandalize_ some people I know, so much.” She giggled and clapped her hands, sharply, “Wynne's expression would’ve been _priceless!_ ”

Confused himself now, Zevran moved to be seated, sinking gratefully into the plush cushions, “Then...how do your people get clean?”

She hopped over the other couch's back, landing with a broad smile, tucking her legs under her, “Small basins. Most people only bathe once or twice a week. ‘Course, there’s always a rag for pits and ‘tween the legs.”

He choked in disbelief, utterly aghast, “Once...or twice...a week?”

“Some people, even less,” she amended, shrugging. “In the Alienage, clean water was hard to come by. Why waste it on skin that's just about to get dirty once more in short order?”

Trying very hard to not imagine the stench, Zevran rubbed his temples with both hands now. He could only pray to some distant, uncaring Maker that the Warden bathed with some sort of regularity, otherwise he would go mad. If they were on the trail he could understand, but with normal amenities to hand, bathing fewer than three times a week was detestable.

“I suppose in that instance it would be...understandable,” he said, slowly, still trying to imagine – or well, trying very hard not to imagine – what the populace of Ferelden was like. 

She played with a silver ring on one finger, rolling it with her thumb, “Well, once I got to the arling of Amaranthine and was made arlessa,” here she snorted indelicately, as if she thought that was a strange thing indeed, “I found that the only way to ease the aches and headache of having to deal with so many people, was to sink myself up to my neck in hot water as often as possible. Wash away the care and all that. My cousin Shianni, when she found out, teased me mercilessly about it. But, then again, she was always the sort to simply bull into everything, and anyone who made a bad comment whatsoever got their nose broken. And just their nose if they were lucky...” Smiling broadly, this woman was full of the damn things which for some reason made him want to respond in kind, she continued, “I don't think anyone would _dare_ to give her enough trouble to make her have a headache. And some people think _I_ roll over anything that gets in my way....”

Deciding that she wasn't stupid, but simply the product of a place with no civilization whatsoever, Zevran forced himself to reexamine her. Blunt, certainly. Then again, that was the charm of Fereldans, he was told. There was no polish to her, this Miolanai – her clothes were simple, her speech easy and free, her movements graceful in a particular, playful way. The cast of her features made her appear somewhere between too young and mid-twenties, but she had fought an Archdemon and won. 

And survived it.

That meant there was a hard core somewhere in her. Maybe that meant that all this was simply her persona in public. A shiny, silly, simple thing, that disarmed those around her, much like his own facade of sensuality. Not that he wasn't a hedonist at times, but he was far more pragmatic than most gave him credit for. Keeping that in mind, Zevran had to wonder at what approach would be best. Settling into the role of long-term bodyguard and overall servant took a bit of finesse. Careful handling would be needed in educating this Fereldan.

He must have been quiet too long, for she prompted him, “So what are these baths like?”

Crossing his legs at the knee, he picked his words carefully, “The finer baths have slaves who come and assist in washing the patrons, amongst other services. Drinks, food, companionship and conversation.” He tapped a random beat on the hard, yet supple, Antivan leather of the guard that covered his kneecap. “There are smaller inner baths, for small groups or individuals. I once had a mark in _El Agua Dorada_. Quite a fine place; many of the tiles in the private baths had gems inset in them. Mother-of-pearl abounded – absolutely gorgeous. If one is to die, it was a good place to do so. So many more unpleasant places, yes?” 

Tilting her head, so strands of white hair fell across her cheek, she looked at him, “Dangerous, I would think. All that water...easy to get drowned if they get a better grip on you than you have on them.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I prefer to take them unawares. It is the best way. Do not let the mark suffer. If they fight too much, then their deaths are drawn out. Clean death is better. It is why I prefer poisons to disable them, after they have been...exhausted properly.”

To this she nodded, “I'm mostly used to straight-up fights. It isn't like you can say to an ogre, 'Hey, I'm going to feed this to you so you won't fight so much, so I can kill you quick and merciful-like. But first, would you like a backrub?' They don't tend to respond well. People though, I can see that being a definite tactical advantage.”

He laughed at the image she painted, “No, I imagine it would not be taken well.”

Suddenly she leaned forward, pert nose crinkling, “So wait, people, they...don't wash _themselves_ at these places?”

“The rich do not, often they do not even dress themselves. That is what slaves are for,” he replied, shrugging.

Her face scrunched to one side, “Really? It...isn't all that complicated! It's just water, soap and a cloth. And they can't even...put clothes on by themselves? Really? Anyone over five should be able to manage that on their own....”

“Ah, so I take it this means you require no assistance? Tchk, a shame, I was looking forward to it,” he slipped into his usual teasing and banter; it seemed the best route with her, considering the way she had picked at him already several times. 

XXX

Waking early the next morning, Zevran lay abed, listening. From the way the Warden behaved yesterday, he knew some of how he needed to proceed. She was clearly exhausted from her voyage and would need time to adjust. Rubbing his forehead, staring at the ceiling, the Crow suppressed a groan. Miolanai would be useful to the Guild, he supposed, but first she had to be rested and then, somehow, educated. 

He would have to teach her Antivan, give her a general rundown on history, the factions, and things like that. Then he would have to show her the cultural high and low points, and how to navigate the Guild itself. But how educated was she in general? Zevran wasn't even sure she could read. It was like being thrown a new apprentice, but one who hadn't even gone through the basics of training. How to eat, how to sleep in the heat, when times were safe and unsafe. What sorts of clothes to wear, what sorts of things were polite conversation and others that were impolite. 

In the other room he heard a grunt and tossed covers followed by bare feet on rug covered wood. Another thump, then quick breathing that was only just this side of audible through the thick walls. He slipped from his bed, which was covered in creamy blue and yellow linen. Snagging his loose silk sleep half-trews and tugging them on, Zevran listened intently. Sharp inhales and exhales came in a measured rhythm, that continued even as he made his way around the screen that only partially blocked his room from the sitting area. Cocking his head when he got to the Warden's room, he pressed his ear to the door before squatting to peer through the keyhole. What a strange sight met his spying eye, his fellow elf was pressing herself up and down over the ground, resting her weight on toes and palms, with her back rigid. Then Miolanai was rolling over onto her back, hands tucked behind her head, feet planted firmly on the ground and sitting up and laying back down repeatedly. Frowning at the odd exercises, Zevran straightened, knocking on her door. 

From behind the wood came another grunt. “S'open!”

Taking that for an invitation, the Crow pushed the door wide. “Do you require anything?”

“Uhn?” She paused, half way between the ground and her knees. “Nope. No, wait. Could you hold my feet steady? There's nothing for me to hook them around.”

Doing as she asked, Zevran cautiously probed, “And what is this that you are doing?”

“Situps,” she expelled the word in a gust. “Gotta do two hundred.”

He moved from her feet, gaining a better grip on her ankles. “Two hundred of these...exercises? Why?”

He watched as her lips moved soundlessly, those odd green eyes clenched shut, clearly keeping count. Quickly she finished, levering herself back into a backbend, and Zevran was forced to tighten his hands around her ankles to keep her steady. Beneath his fingers, he felt tight muscles and tendons looping around the slim bones. There was a resounding series of pops and cracks from her spine, knees and shoulders, that made her moan in a rather...enticing way, he had to admit.

And then she was flopping back down on the floor, tugging at his hold on her as she said, “Fighting trim. Helps get the blood started. Is there anywhere I can run? I need to do about five miles.”

“Not anywhere inside the city, unless it is on someone's property,” he sat back on his heels, measuring her. 

She had clearly spent the night wearing leggings and tunic, for they were rumpled, much like her hair. Atop the bed he spied her sword, blade bared. Not even he slept with a naked blade in bed. Too easy to roll over or shift in one's sleep, making for unfortunate accidents. 

Miolanai ran hands through her hair, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “Blast. How do you Crows stay in shape if you don't have anywhere to run? Is there some sort of salle or other we could go to? Preferably nearby.”

“Most of us reside in safehouses that have a training room,” he replied, shrugging. “We would need to gain permission from one of the owners to make use of one.”

She frowned, sucking on her bottom lip, “What about the ones who don't live in the safehouses?”

Zevran shifted, uncomfortably. His loft in the tannery quarter of town had plenty of room for practice, as well as various equipment that he used to stay in top physical form, but that was a private place. While the Guild knew about it, he had never brought anyone there who had any Guild association. 

“I could easily ask Master Ignacio for access to one of the safehouses,” he offered instead.

With a sigh, Miolanai nodded, “Fine. What's one day?”

“I would think,” he started, hazarding to voice his thoughts, “that you might wish to rest for a few days, now that you are back on land. After that, take in some of the city sights. Master Ignacio doesn't expect to introduce you to the Guild until you have had some time to yourself.”

...And time to be prepared for the dances that would ensue.

She was blinking at him in that odd fashion that made him feel like she was about to call him 'crazy', “Time enough to rest when I'm dead, and if I don't keep sharp, that'll happen sooner, rather than later.”

He tried to hide his grimace, “Everyone needs a holiday, Warden. You should take the time to become acquainted with Antiva and its culture before seeking to dash headlong into things that will get you dead far more quickly than taking some time off.”

“Is that a recommendation, or part of your thing as guide?” she asked, leaning her chin on a fist as she propped an elbow on one knee.

Pursing his lips, Zevran kept a curse back, “I have been tasked with guiding you in all things here, as well as watching your back. This includes ensuring that you take care of yourself.”

Miolanai stood and went to her armoire, pulling out a fresh change of clothes, “I've been taking care of myself a long time. I'm alive, so I must be doing just fine.”

Averting his gaze politely as she stripped and changed, Zevran clutched at his thighs. Headstrong and ignorant. Hasty and refusing to respond to gentle guiding. At this rate, he would have to hit her on the head, tie her up and explain to her in small words exactly how things were to be. Ignacio had made it abundantly clear that having the Hero of Ferelden in his employ, even as a free agent, was a coup that was not to be missed. Such opportunities were rare, and keeping her loyalty to Ignacio was paramount, which meant keeping her safe from idiotic decisions, not just the general riffraff and Crows.

Miolanai was stepping around him, removing her armour from its stand and buckling it on quickly. Zevran took a moment to appreciate that – it was one of those rare things to behold, someone who knew their gear and could don the complicated armour with such speed and dexterity. Then again, from the way she sighed in relief once it was on her, he supposed she had been wearing armour day in, day out for quite some time.

Because of this he found himself asking, “How does one become a Warden?”

“Drink some blood, choke on it, pass out, have some fucked up nightmares and wake up, if you're lucky, with a pounding headache that never truly goes away,” she replied shortly, pulling on her baldrics and getting them settled, then changing the subject. “So, since there's nowhere for me to exercise, why not show me some of these sights you're on about?”

XXX

Two armed and armoured elves was not exactly a normal occurrence, not when one of the elves was obviously playing 'tour guide', but Zevran knew that stubborn look in the Warden's eyes. He had seen it on long-time soldiers, had seen it in his own eyes on occasion. It was a look that said 'try to part me from my weapons and armour, and I'll part you from your life'. Of course, such a thing had its uses, but this was Antiva City. Its dangers were not the sort that were best met with steel, but with wit.

Even so, he walked beside her pointing out various landmarks, humouring her for now, “That is the _Plaza de la Mercede_.” He gestured towards the large square, tree lined as it was, splashing fountains dotting all four corners with two in the center, each bearing sculptures of famous monarchs killed by the Guild, “There are small cafes lining the streets that wrap around the square, mostly catering to foreigners. Each major faction of the Guild has at least one cafe, listening for news and gossip.”

“Are any of them any good?” She pushed away some of the hair that perpetually fell into her eyes. He supposed that the small concession she'd granted by not wearing a helmet meant that the hair that normally was kept back, now no longer was. The lack was something she was currently cursing. “I could eat half a bronto.”

His lips twitched, “A bronto? And only half of one? Hmm, here I thought you might swallow it whole.”

“It's a dwarven thing, sort of a pack animal,” she said, nose wrinkling. “Ugly as sin. Looked like a fat, bloated darkspawn or a corrupted ox.”

“There has not been a sighting of darkspawn in Antiva in near a hundred years,” he pointed out, “so I have no idea what they actually look like.”

Guiding her to the northwest corner of the _Mercede_ , Zevran watched for thieves. Most were only giving them sidelong glances; he was well known here, enough so that most of them tended to leave him alone, except the occasional band of playing street urchins, but today there were none nearby. 

Miolanai took a deep breath, and he could tell she was about to start going over some lengthy list of details, “Genlocks. Let's see...They come from dwarven females that have been made into Broodmothers. Short, similar build to a dwarf, faces like dying rats, all teeth, narrow, pinched, melted skin. Green to grey. They smell. Stink actually.” 

Zevran interrupted her as they neared one of the smallest cafes, “Pardon? They...are...part dwarf?”

“Uhn? Oh, yeah.” Nodding vigorously, she continued, “Females are taken captive every time. They're...twisted by the darkspawn, by the Taint. They can spawn dozens of darkspawn in a day.”

A sense of disquiet fell over him, “I was given to understand that Wardens are Tainted.”

“How would you know that?” Miolanai reached out, grabbing his arm, pulling him to a stop. She was staring up at him intently, “That's a Warden secret.”

Grunting, Zevran met her gaze steadily, “There is no such thing as a secret that the Guild cannot find out.” He glanced back the way they came, toward the streets that would hold Ignacio's villa, “I was given materials to read when I was informed of what my next assignment was to be. Wardens sense darkspawn, because they are part darkspawn. Only Wardens can kill Archdemons. Wardens go through a ritual that has been named The Joining. Wardens have the Right of Conscription and in most places will exercise it regularly, to keep their numbers bolstered, except in Ferelden. The fact that Wardens 'meddled' in political affairs got them exiled two hundred years ago, which means that any Warden in Ferelden is to be watched closely.”

“Anything else you know that isn't common knowledge?” Her eyes were skipping over his face intently.

“When you were ten you were almost arrested by the Denerim guard for pickpocketing.” Twisting his arm in her grasp gently, Zevran pulled her along to the cafe, “Your mother died during a riot when you were fourteen. She came to Ferelden from somewhere north. Your cousin Soris was with you the day you killed Bann Vaughan Urien Kendell. The Grey Warden Duncan lent a sword to him, as well as to the man you were to marry. Somehow the two foolish boys stormed into the arl's Denerim estate and in the fracas your betrothed – one Nelaros – was killed. You once shoved a human out of a window for calling you 'knife ears'. Would you like me to continue? I have been briefed on everything I need to know.” Holding up two fingers to one of the waiters, he called out _“Dos cafes con leche, doubles, tres sucres. Tambien melone con jamon y veinte churros.”_

He swiveled in his chair to face her fully, “I know everything necessary to protect you that was easily found. Ignacio is nothing if not thorough, and _I_ am nothing if not professional.” Before she could ask what he ordered them, he continued, “You will like the coffee, but first watch how I make mine. The rest, eat as much as you like, however I recommend going a little slow. Enough people are staring at us, we do not need more.”

When the food arrived, the Warden simply watched him for a moment, before copying him as she had the night before. He thought she was probably getting her thoughts in order, while he was preparing to answer whatever questions she had, or deflect them, as the case may be.

Picking up and nibbling cautiously at a piece of honeydew wrapped in thin slices of cured ham, she asked, “Why would Ignacio do that?”

“Ah, an easy enough answer there,” he replied, crossing his legs at the ankles under the table, stretching out. “You are a respected personage here. Many Guildsmen would work very hard to woo you to their side and barring that, kill you, if it became necessary. To find what makes you tick like the hands of a dwarven clock, to find what moves you, what dirt can be used to keep you in check...these are the weapons they would bring to bear.” Setting his glass of creamy coffee down, he continued, “Ignacio desires to keep you a nominally free agent, one that might bring him gossip and intrigues from the other Masters. They will say much in front of you as they try to win your...ah...affections, as it were. Like a great funnel of information, you are to be. This is the way you would earn your wealth here. Jobs for one such as you, like the ones I would generally carry out, would be difficult. Yet, at the same time, you could still do them, using me as the blade who does the deed as you distract the targets.”

She blinked slowly in surprise, worrying at her lip, frowning down at the plate between them, “Oh. So, I'm to be a pawn?”

“My dear, we are _all_ pawns,” he chuckled and shook his head. 

“Then why join the Crows? You don't strike me as the sort to sign yourself up to be someone's gamepiece,” the statement, when matched with her earlier one of not wanting a servant, was telling. 

She had no idea that he was a slave. 

Sighing, Zevran shifted forward, sprinkling a spoonful of sugar over his churros, “Truth be told, it is that I was never given much choice.”

Miolanai ate another slice of melon, “What? They forcefully recruit all the highly skilled rogues in the city?”

Zevran didn't much mind the fact that he was a slave, he just knew others could be funny about such matters. His life was good; he had possessions, prestige and skills that non-slaves rarely ever achieved without family connections in this country, or in any other country, for that matter. Antiva was good to its slaves, by and large; few had to worry for food or shelter. The laws in place forced owners to be judicious with the resource of slaves. Of course, that didn't stop owners from beating unruly slaves and the like, but at least there were standards.

“My dear, I was born in a whorehouse, and when I was about seven years of age, I was sold for hmm...I would say it converts to three sovereigns,” he said, taking a bite of a churro. “That is how the Crows buy all their trainees – young. Raise them up to know nothing but murder and killing. But,” he hastened to add, seeing her horror, “it is not without its rewards. Being a Crow gets you respect, wealth, wine, women, men – anything you desire. The guards look away from your transgressions, and people do not bother you. You are educated in matters beyond blade and poison; there is no such thing as an uneducated Crow. We all read, write, are taught art forms. Be they dance, metalworking, painting – we are cultured weapons.” Snorting a little, Zevran took another sip of coffee, rolling the thick taste around his mouth, “There are many rewards to being a Crow, but there are many rules, and you must always do what you are told. It is a cage we live in – pretty, but confining.” 

“That's...terrible, Zevran,” her eyes were wide, the almond shape almost round, and he could clearly see that there was a strange ring of silver around her iris. She reached out, laying a callused hand atop his, “I'm so sorry.”

He raised a brow at her, “Ah, Warden, compassionate as well as lovely and dangerous.” He shook his head, “But you, too, live in a cage. We all do, my dear. No one is spared. We each have roles we play, tunes we dance to. Resisting those calls only results in pain for one and all, no?”

He watched as Miolanai mulled that over, her gaze turning inward, “Some of us are thrust into situations – cages – that’re too big for us, bound in chains that won't break no matter that they're invisible.”

Zevran flipped his hand over, wrapping his fingers around hers, understanding intimately of what she spoke, “'Hero' is a hefty title to wear, yes?”

“Making decisions in a crisis...is different from making the day to day ones.” He let her pull her hand back to her side of the table, watching it curl into a fist, “Who gets what grain, what bann to support in their claims. Proofs that say one thing, witnesses that claim another. Being responsible for everything from what armour and weapons your followers wear, to what spells they learn. It's hard enough being responsible for just myself and my actions.” She sighed, turning away to gaze out over the _Mercede_ , “Sometimes, I just wish someone would tell _me_ what to do and take care of the details.”

“And so you seek the Guild,” he said, gaining a bit of insight he hadn't had before. “They point you in a direction, you attack, taking out something using the skills you have. You do not have to think or worry for anything. That is what you thought this would be like for you, yes?”

Her look was pointed, “You're saying it won't be.”

Picking up his glass, he held it by the bottom, the dyed glass glittering. “Is this a cup?”

Miolanai crossed her arms, leaning away from him. “Yes.”

“And shall it always be a cup? Is it simply a container for drink?” Pursing his lips, he measured her expression. “Can it not become a weapon, or a gift? A cup can just as surely kill or save as a 'hero'. But who decides what this cup shall do?”

“You do,” she grunted, her mannerisms rough and male. Aside from her features, Miolanai was utterly male at times. 

He finished his coffee and waggled a finger at her, “A cup has no sentience. It does not choose what it does. You and I do, or someone else does. You come here seeking to be like this cup, but you are not a cup, you are a person, a 'hero'. There is no one but you who can fill you and choose what you are to be filled with.” 

“You're saying that not even amongst slaves and their owners will I find someone who will simply tell me where to go, what to do,” she said, muttering darkly.

Spreading his hands, Zevran smiled ruefully, “No one is large enough to pour contents into your cup. No one is strong enough to tell you what to do. No one is able to shoulder your burdens and take responsibility for your actions. It is part of finding a place in life, of being an adult. Not even I, a slave born and raised, am absolved of each thing I do.” Leaning on his elbows, he forced her to let him catch her eyes, “There are many things I have no choice in, or only a little, but how I handle those things is my choice, and for choosing to accept what I do, who I was made to be, I am well rewarded.”

“You sound sort of like Sten and Wynne, talking like that,” she replied wearily, looking as if the weight of the world was on her slim shoulders.

And it was, to a degree. Heroes were good for when a group needed a leader and a focus for rallying against insurmountable odds. But what happened to heroes when the battle was over? Zevran had seen Crows like Miolanai that returned from long contracts or too many battles. Beaten down by the constant pressures, they knew no other way to be than what situations had molded them into. 

They either cracked or recovered. Sometimes it was one and the same. Which the Warden would be, Zevran was unsure of at the moment. However, he did know one thing; it was his responsibility to ensure she recovered enough to function for Ignacio's purposes.

“Qunari tend to have a peculiar wisdom, I have found, even the Tal Vashoth,” he agreed easily. “I have known three Stens of the Beresaad. They make for good mercenaries and interesting drinking partners. As for this Wynne, who is that?”

“I guess you weren't fully informed of everything. She was an Enchanter of the Circle,” she replied, smirking at him.

Zevran shrugged once more, “Your party members are not who I am assigned to. Their identities are unimportant, beyond Alistair Theirin and Leliana.”

XXX

They were walking along, and he could feel the tension building in the Warden. Every now and again he caught her scanning their surroundings, the streets, peering at the faces of people that moved past them, as if she were looking for and assessing threats. He would think it foolish, but he only had to remember that she was keyed up still, never having truly removed and set aside that armour for more than a night. Even though she had jokingly said she had been relieved to take the weight off last night, her current actions and the ones of the morning belied that. Miolanai wouldn't know what to do without her armour acting as a constant buffer between her and others.

Laying a hand on her shoulder, he stepped close, leaning down, and pointed to the west, “Look there.”

Quickly she turned in the direction he was pointing, squinting around, hand moving up to the hilts of her weapons, “What? Where?”

“No, look up, there. Sight along my arm,” he murmured in her gently pointed ear.

For another moment, Zevran half expected her to arm herself and ready for an attack. He could feel when she saw what he was pointing to. Her breath caught, and she turned to glance at him, her face close to his. This close, he could see that there was a thin-as-gossamer set of scars, running from below her ear down into the top of her armour. 

“What _is_ that?” she whispered, her mouth opening in awe.

“The minarets of _Al Bastión de Flores Abrasadoras_.” Translating for her quickly, he added, “The Bastion of Burning Flowers.”

“What?” A puzzled laugh came from her. “They massacre a lot of flowerbeds there? Oh no – we attack with the awesomeness of floral arrangements! And set them afire! Oh yes, smell that fragrant smoky scent!”

Laughing, Zevran shook his head, “No, look at the spires. They are like roses atop long stems, yes?”

Miolanai squinted those queer emerald eyes, chin jutting a touch as she focused, “I suppose. Oh!” A startled gasp broke free, “They're tiled!”

“Yes,” he nodded, still leaning with his face near enough to hers for her to feel it, though she couldn't see it. “Like petals, with glass. As the sun sets, they flame bright, reflecting all the colours of sunset and sky. Like flowers made of flame.”

“How is that even remotely practical?” she asked, shaking her head, jaw still dropped in awe.

He urged her to resume walking, “It serves as guide for ships in the harbour, and near the tops of the minarets there are scouting platforms with special lenses. They can see far and wide, and ships can be rescued if need be, or defenses can be mounted in an attack.” He snorted, “Though, the last who were able to do so and succeed were the Qunari. No other would be so foolish.”

“Is everything here like that? All beauty and death?” she sounded so confused.

He licked his lips, “There is beauty in everything, no matter how ugly it is. Just as there is ugliness in everything beautiful. It is...a paradox.”

“Well, I suppose we're all born dying,” Miolanai muttered, still casting glances towards the fine spires. “And to truly feel alive is to skate the narrow edge of a knife, knowing that one misstep, and you fall to your doom, and that with every correct step you're slicing off a little bit more time....”

“Such dark thoughts.” Pausing at a flower selling girl with a basket looped over her arm, he paid for a little bouquet, turning to present it to Miolana, “For someone so lovely. Smile more, it brightens your face, just as these,” he touched one of the dark violet black petals as he tucked the flowers behind one of her pointed ears, “bring out the light in your eyes.”

She jerked back in surprise but he had been too fast, “Wha-what?”

Tapping her chin, Zevran gave her a playful grin, “Smile, for you are lovely, Warden, and have a face that is not suited for these dark glowers you cast every which way.”

He watched as Miolanai shifted uncomfortably, not looking at him, “Lovely, is it? Hmph, flattery is unnecessary. I'm just...antsy. All these people, milling about, and I have all this...energy, and nothing to do with it.”

“I can think of several things to do with boundless energy, Warden,” he responded, adding a sultriness to the words in the hopes of teasing out a smile. 

What was more attention-grabbing than two heavily armoured people – who were also elves – was one of the pair looking ready to kill anything at any moment. Which wouldn't do at all. For the price of a few coppers and some breath, he would count this act as worth it. And besides, what woman didn't like being complimented?

Miolanai didn't answer, except to go back to walking, “The effort’s appreciated, but unnecessary Zevran. I'm too...keyed up to play.” It was a low mumble but he caught it, “ _Vashedan_ , I could do with a fight.”

Containing his irritation and feigning unawareness of the strange looks being cast their way, Zevran caught up, “If you are feeling that energetic, I know of a place we could spar.”

“You do?” Her tone perked up, and everything in her followed suit. “Really?”

Sucking in a deep breath, Zevran braced himself, “My loft has plenty of space to practice in.”

A huge, bright smile – a grateful one too – broke over Miolanai's face, chasing all the darkness away, “ _That_ would just make my day!”


	3. Chapter 3

XXX  
Guild-ed 3  
XXX

There were people everywhere. Miolanai hadn't ever seen so many at once. Now that she wasn't so tired, now that she was fresh and alert – and no longer paying attention to examining Zevran, as she had been yesterday – she was really noticing them. Everywhere, people. Elbow to elbow in some places, and there were fountains and buildings and store fronts and cafes and – the list went on. 

And there were still so many people. 

Also, their surroundings seemed to become poorer, which she supposed made sense. Zevran was a slave, and his concept of wealth was probably different from what she had come to associate with that term. Not that she minded – she was from an Alienage and had no problem with poverty – it was just that poorer sections meant an increase of desperate people, and desperate people meant thugs... 

...Like the ones she had noticed lounging against that building ahead. A trio of dark-haired Antivans, swarthy skinned and coarse, they had been eyeing her and Zevran as they came closer to the intersection. Beside her, the Crow had appeared to simply discount the ruffians, but Miolanai knew trouble when she saw it, and these _shems_ shouted it, with their rough leathers and daggers, and the game of knucklebones that two of them were playing. She could feel their eyes on her though, feel their scorn and curiosity. So far, in the distance she and Zevran had gone, she had only seen a handful of armed women, all of whom appeared foreign or Dalish. Or possibly Crows. 

Miolanai hadn't watched the faces of the people they passed, just their body language and dress – faces meant nothing. Everything was in bearing. The trio's screamed 'thug' and 'danger' to everything in her. Reaching up casually, like she was simply adjusting her hair, Miolanai loosened her sword in its sheath. 

_“Hola, guapa,”_ one of them called as they got within easy speaking distance. Or well – easy enough. _“Mira la diversión!”_

Miolanai didn't need to know what the tallest of the three said as he rose. _“Necesitas un hombre verdardero, chica, enséñele una lección!”_ sounded enough like a rude catcall and challenge to her ears. When it was coupled by the three sauntering towards them, exchanging glances with each other – Miolanai decided to give them just a little bit more line to hang themselves. Besides, Zevran had yet to say anything, and even he was tense. Pursing her lips, the Warden decided that that was enough – especially with how the Crow had drawn himself up, tilted his head to one side, a grim look on his features. In a move she had completed thousands of times, she drew her weapons and dove forward. The thugs had little time to react as she hit them. The one who had done the talking – and insulting – went down first, her blades hacking at him in a whirlwind. Behind her there was a soft curse, and Zevran was suddenly beside her. 

She was laughing as she tore the throat out of the second thug. “Move fast or you lose, Zev – I got the first two!”

“We are _not_ competing for points!” he snapped, even as he buried a long, slim triangular poignard into the last thug's face via his eye. 

After the last man's body hit the ground, Miolanai twirled her blades, blood flying free, the queer metal shedding the viscous fluid easily. “Good, because you lost.” Sheathing her blades, the Warden began digging through pouches and pockets, ignoring Zevran who appeared to be seething. _Guess he's a sore loser? Meh, his issue, not mine!_

The Crow was quiet for a few seconds, before his whiskey accented voice rolled into her head. “And _why_ did you feel the need to kill these...minor ruffians?”

Grunting, she tossed away some useless-looking bits of string from the first thug, “Because, they were annoying.” 

There was a deep sigh, “You cannot do that.”

That made her laugh. “I just did, so I think evidence’d say otherwise.”

“No, I mean...” Another weighty sigh made her look up, and she noted that the Crow's arms were crossed, and he wasn't even looking at her, but at the other people who had shied away from the scuffle. “I mean, normal people do not do that. You should have let me handle that situation.”

Finding nothing of value to her on the first thug, Miolanai scuttled to the second, “Yeah, I saw you were right on that.”

“No, I could have told them we were Crows, and they would have left us be. No casualties, no bodies to worry about....” She could practically feel him rubbing his forehead in aggravation, no matter that she wasn't willing to waste the time to glance at him again.

The second thug was a much better thing, particularly his pouch, and the Warden crowed as she poured the contents into one hand, “Hey! This one has four sovereigns!”

“Dear Maker, you are taking _money_ off of them?” his voice was strained and incredulous, utterly horrified.

Checking over her shoulder, she watched him press his face to his palm, while she explained as though he were dumb, “Yeah, they don't need it. Hey, and they buy lunch for the next month. I’d say that's pretty awesome.”

He waved a hand at the corpses, “Look, my dear, normal people do not...just do this.”

Miolanai snorted, going to the last body, “Yeah, they just get raped or robbed.”

“No...look,” the Crow growled, “The thugs attacked because you are armed and armoured. They would have left us alone if you had been dressed like a normal woman.”

“That's a steaming pile of bronto shit,” she said, rising and wiping her hands off on her breastplate. 

“No, they would have looked at me, realized I was your bodyguard and not bothered, as I was not out of place.” She could tell he was attempting to keep his temper. 

But then again, so was she. She hadn't made it through a Blight by letting some fancy man carry her, and she had seen how well others did as protectors on her wedding day. 

Setting her jaw, she leveled her best intimidating stare at him, “Hah... Yeah, right.”

There was the barest flinch, and his expression became wary, “Look. This is a civilized country, Warden. Threats do not just happen upon a whim. You draw attention with the way you are. That is why we were attacked.” 

“Pfft,” she scoffed. “You're full of it. C’mon, let's get to your place, where I can work off some of this energy, because _this_ ,” she jerked her chin at the bodies around them, scattered like broken dolls, “was barely a workout.”

There was a gusty sigh. “As you wish. We go work out, then we go buy some normal clothes, befitting a woman in Antiva City.”

That made her chuckle, enjoying the fact that she had this man frustrated – she had a dangerous sense of fun from such things. “This is my normal clothes!” as she shifted the weight of her armour significantly so it would clunk together faintly.

“So, you are just ready to kill anyone who looks at you twice? You are ready to constantly invite danger?” This was almost hissed at her, and for a moment, Miolanai felt as if she had upset Alistair, who would always be so disappointed when she rushed headlong into something without backup. “You will be beaten down eventually if you go on like that. Like a sword constantly hacking at things, you will blunt and chip your edges until you are no more. You cannot live like that! No one can!”

“Watch me.” Gritting her teeth, Miolanai held her head up high. What he said made no sense, none at all, which she had to remind herself of, or she may have to face the fact that there was something about her not normal.

XXX

The tannery district stank. Then again, tanneries always stank of cesspools, brains and bodies decomposing. That was normal. Parts of any city or town that held tanneries were always the poorest, and that held true even here, in this country where elegance reigned supreme. Tall tenement buildings were dingy grey, rather than the sparkling white of other districts. At least none of the buildings looked unstable the way the ones of the Denerim Alienage had. Just...worn and dirty when compared to everywhere else. 

Even so, there were window-boxes and half-porches that held herbs, and on one half-porch, there were tomatoes growing, their green leafy vines twining around the metal railing. The cobbles here were not as flat or well repaired, either, and the Warden had to watch her footing a little, as one stone had been loose and wobbled under her foot unexpectedly. There were not so many people as in other areas, and there were small, scraggly looking dogs that nosed about, eating from some small piles of trash on the sides of the street. A little old lady stooped, sweeping industriously before her doorway, nodded and waved at Zevran, who returned the greeting.

“ _Hola, madre! Tu estas bien?_ ” His voice carried easily, his body language relaxed in a way that Miolanai hadn't seen before.

It was like he was on his home turf. Then again, she supposed that if this was where his flat was, then he was on his home turf. It was a little startling because she had thought him relaxed at other points, but here he was smiling, the tension having completely bled from his bearing. 

_“Bien, bien, guapo!”_ The old woman chuckled, her gray-shot wavy black hair held back by a colourful scarf bobbed along with her head, her long yellow skirt dusty brown at the hem, and the billowy sleeves of her white shirt flapped. 

Leaning over, she murmured, “What did you say?”

That seemed to bring him back, and some of the tension returned. “Forgive me. Tchk, I forget you do not even know the most basic of the language. I merely said 'Hello, mother! Are you well?'. She said 'good'.” His lips thinned for a moment. “We shall have to undertake this the way a child would.”

“What?” she frowned at him. 

“I shall point to things, or you will, and I will tell you what it is in Antivan,” he gave a tiny shrug. “You will learn better this way. I could pull books out on grammar, spelling, structure – but that is not the best way to learn. Even so, you will have to hide how well you speak Antivan. Tongues wag more around someone who is ignorant of the language.”

Tilting her head side to side, the Warden looked high into the azure blue sky, agreeing. “Sounds logical, but a book of definitions would be good.”

She felt more than saw the Crow pause, “You can read? Ah, good then. That will make many things easier.”

Miolanai jostled him with her elbow lightly, “Hey, I'm a bumpkin, alley rat – don't mean I can't read or do math. Um...but you may not want to look at my writing. It even gives _me_ a headache when I try to read it.”

Zevran appeared to be guiding them towards a particular building, one that looked no different from the rest, yet had a different 'air' to it. “I shall keep that in mind.”

Suddenly there was a screaming squeal, and a gaggle of children – ranging in ages from four to ten – came careening from an alleyway, a rawhide ball being kicked back and forth between them. At the initial shout, Miolanai had almost reached for her weapons, but then she identified the children for what they were – children. She didn't get to see many of those anymore, not since leaving the Alienage, not unless they were refugees of some sort, so the elf paused, taking in the sight. She admired the sunbaked long limbs on the older children and smaller chubby ones on the littlest of the group. All were dark-haired, though some had sun-lightened streaks woven amongst their wavy or curly hair, and all were laughing and screaming as they gamboled from one side of the street to the other.

The Crow next to her paused, for which she was grateful. These very children were the ones that Alistair had saved. Them, and all the others – from Ferelden to Orlais to Rivain and Par Vollen. From _shem_ , to elf, to dwarf – her friend had given himself so that people could go about their lives. If the big, dumb, Templar-trained oaf – who wasn't really dumb, or an oaf, merely big – had been here, Miolanai was sure he would have been smiling. Chewing her bottom lip, the young Warden sighed, content to watch, not just for herself, but for her brother in all but blood. 

A curly haired head with a sunnily smiling face glanced up from playing and spied the pair of elves. _“Zevran!”_

As fast as that, the nameless game ended, and they raced towards them. Miolanai was swamped by children, some almost as tall as herself. A jumble of words that she couldn't even begin to follow was forming, one tiny girl jumping up and down before the Warden, grabbing her hand. Laughing and shaking her head, she picked the girl up without thought. This earned her a happy squeal, and a grubby hand in her hair. 

“I don't understand,” she said, smiling at the girl who tugged on a white lock of hair. 

Zevran paused in some explanation to one of the children, “She wants to know if a ghost scared you and made your hair like that.”

Miolanai's nose crinkled, “Nah, I was born with white hair.”

The Crow shot off the reply quickly and went back to nodding and listening to the larger children around him. They were tugging on his arms and pointing one way and then another, with one proudly showing off a silver ring. The elf surmised that the youth had stolen it and was bragging at the success. At least, that's what Miolanai guessed, even as she felt her 'dummy' coinpurse being lifted from her hip. She always wore one from her belt that usually held a few silvers and some copper bits. Usually cut-purses would go for it, satisfied with such slim pickings, and she remembered a time, not so many years ago, that such a bounty was what kept food on her family's table. So, she didn't react, content to hold the girl in her arms and let the others think her fooled. 

However, she could see that Zevran hadn't been taken in by her ruse of inattention, and she also saw the twitch of an approving smile on his face. At that moment, she had to admit, he did look rather handsome. He was gold to their dark and appeared utterly carefree. It was then that she thought maybe this was why he lived near the tanneries, for this sense of community. She knew she would have picked a similar sort of place for that very same reason.

“Speak Common, I,” a young, shapeless girl – from the voice, if not the build – said to her.

“Yes?” She turned to look at the girl.

“Good money,” she said, holding the pilfered purse up. “Big money.”

“Keep it,” Miolanai said, waving her hand at the girl.

She shook her head, frowning. “Big money. _Mierda, no se!_ ”

“Have.” Miolanai reached out, curling the girl’s hand around the purse tightly. _“Bien?”_ Trying out the word Zevran had said meant 'good', she said it with a question to her voice, unsure if she was using it properly. “Zevran.” She cast him a glance, giving him a light nudge with her foot. “Tell her she can keep it for her and her family. There's maybe a sovereign in there in coppers and silvers. I got plenty, and I remember when every bit helped.”

_“Aquí, Dieda, por ti y familia,”_ Zevran's words seemed to soothe the young cut-purse who made the pouch disappear into the long, belted tunic she wore which appeared to be the universal dress for the children, leaving their legs bare. 

A few more minutes of gabbling children, and then as fast as they had appeared, they left, resuming their game. The girl in Miolanai's arms wiggled, indicating she wished to be put down. Miolanai did so quickly, but got a fast kiss on each cheek before the girl scampered off. Warmed by more than the weather, the Warden felt a moment of peace she hadn't had in so long. Children in Ferelden weren't so happy and free, not even in the Alienage where she had grown up, and the Warden wished she could bottle up such a thing and send it back to that abysmally grey country for all to share in. 

“Well,” Zevran chuckled, “it appears you have been accepted by these locals at least. Fear not for your purse, next time, Dieda is the leader of that band and will share out the bounty to them. She would feel too bad if she took from you again, unless there was great need, or if you played so ignorant again – which is practically an invitation.”

Finding a broad smile on her face, she said, “It's weird. It stinks to the Black City and back, but I think just now was the most at home I've felt in years.”

The Crow clapped her shoulder, a brow raised, “Tchk, this is the way people are here. Are they not like this at all in Ferelden?”

“No.” Shaking her head, she followed him towards the building with green trim around the windows – most of which had at least slatted shutters on them, “They don't greet each other with kisses and hugs. Children may run in the square in some places, but they don't go up to people much. Too many stories from fearful mothers about nasty Orlesians kidnapping them away to be serfs or darkspawn eating them for misbehaving.”

Zevran's face scrunched in clear distaste, “That is foolish. Children do not...outside of the Guild, children are cherished things. And even in the Guild, we had every fifth day off to play and be children.” Shade came over them suddenly, as he pushed open a door to the building, the deeply recessed doorway granting the dimness. “I do not like the sound of your country much. Bland food, fearful children, bah. Is there anything to recommend your country?”

Miolanai shrugged, “Strength and mabari hounds?”

“I hear stories that men cannot fall asleep without their dogs in their bed,” he appeared confused by this as he led them up several flights of stairs in the dark hall with creaking floorboards, and she found that the interior's plaster was painted with life-like scenery. “Or was that their women?”

The friendly jibe flew over her head, because she had halted on the steps, head cocked, tracing the painting with a finger. The way the scene had been painted, it was like the staircase was nothing more than a balcony that overlooked a bay, with artistically crumbling walls that were even built up with more plaster so that they _felt_ like a crumbling wall. There were even little ships painted off in the 'distance', while in the closer edges to the 'wall' of the balcony, she could see a sloping hill covered in white adobe houses with flat roofs. 

“Hmm, you like?” The Crow sat on a step, knees spread, hands clasped between them. “This is the work of several months. There is more, if you wish to explore.”

Shaking off the surprise, she said, “You say that like you know the artist.”

He chuckled sardonically, “You could say that, but come, Warden, there is energy to be worked off, and I have not been to my home in days.”

Periodically she would have to stop as they continued up the stairs simply to lean close, squinting at the artwork that the stairwell was sheathed in. She could barely see the brushstrokes, partially due to the lighting, and partially because the painter had been highly skilled, she guessed. Everything was so lifelike that it made the narrow stairway feel open and cool, like a fresh breeze was twisting through, coming off the sea. Frankly, this was awe-inspiring. 

Every now and then, a hallway to other doors would open up, but they continued past those. Miolanai did spare a glance down the corridors and saw that every inch of available space had been painted similarly to the stairway. Shaking her head in befuddled awe, the elf tried to take it all in at once. The Crow hadn't appeared to mind that she liked to “explore” as he put it, always stopping and letting her look her fill before continuing, while a small smile played around his lips. At least he wasn't impatient or making wisecracks, she figured. 

Finally, a brilliantly varnished orange door came into view at the top of the stairs, its bulbous top framed by a carved arch. Zevran hesitated, before simply opening the door. A second hesitation, and Miolanai could tell his shoulders were bunched under his armour, the tendons above one elbow shifting and tight, betraying his unease.

“Something amiss?” she asked, her voice soft, pitched for his ears alone.

“No.” A twitch, and then he waved her over the threshold, bowing as he held the door wide, _“Mi casa, es su casa.”_

Entering, the Warden had to stop dead in her tracks. The walls were covered in paint, from floor to ceiling – and even that was painted. How someone could paint a ceiling that high up, Miolanai wasn't sure. One wall was like a forest glen at the edge of a cliff that eased into more pictures of a bay. Overhead was all striking blue, with clouds and little birds. Reaching out, she had to steady herself on the door frame, jaw hanging open. 

“Dear Maker, it's... _breathtaking_ , Zevran!” voice was hushed and strained. 

For an aching moment, she wanted to weep. She had truly never seen anything so beautiful in her life. Everything was painstakingly done, with a loving attention to detail that made the wide space glow. Blinking burning eyes rapidly, she looked at him and saw that the bronze elf was shifting almost nervously as he watched her reactions.

“Who painted all this?” she asked, gesturing to the apartment and back behind her towards all the decorated halls.

“Crows are trained to be artistic, as well as deadly.” She let him tug her fully into his flat as he closed the door. “I suffered many broken bones in my hands to make me as good as I am. Artistry can be pounded into anyone, after a time.”

She glanced at his hands, which were well formed, strong and elegant. There was no sign that he had ever had born such injuries. Frowning, she grabbed the other elf's hand, flipping it over and pressing her thumbs into the meat of his palm. Not a single telltale ridge met the exploration, which he allowed with good grace. Pinching his fingers, Miolanai found nothing to ever indicate he had suffered such wounds. That meant he had had access to a very good healer, maybe even a mage, for there to have been no lasting damage.

There was a stuttering grunt and a thump from somewhere, followed by rapid thumping footsteps that were surprisingly light. Miolanai jerked away from Zevran, hand going to her sword, pulling it partially free, even as the Crow turned, leaning down as some long, spotted...cat-like... _thing_ lept into his waiting arms. The creature was huge. 

“Aiee, Emi, did you miss Papi?” Gargantuan ears that were like rounded triangles wiggled and waved as the animal hissed lightly, displaying a good set of sharp teeth. Zevran didn't seem to care as he rubbed his nose to the black one before him. “Aie, Papi missed you, yes. Was he gone a long time?”

Some...strange...squeaking noise that sounded like “squee-squee” came from the golden throat with its little black spots. Miolanai's eyes felt like they were about to pop out of her head as the cat-thing opened its mouth and made as though it were biting him on the jugular several times, while making more squee-squee noises. The elf was supporting the cat under its hindquarters while he rubbed and petted its head and back, pressing his face into the creature’s shoulder. It was like Anders with Ser Pounce-A-Lot, but...far more bizarre. The cat, 'Emi', had to weigh almost a third as much as the elf when he wasn't wearing armour, yet he was acting as though this were some tiny little mouser. 

“What _is_ that?” she gasped, finally breaking her silence.

“Oh? Ember? He is my cat.” He shrugged, while carrying the cat further into his flat, like that should be apparent and not sound insane at all. Zevran turned towards her, jiggling Ember a little to get his attention, “Emi...Emi. Listen to Papi.”

The cat stopped his nipping at Zevran, ears flicking forward, eyes going large, as if he were saying, “I'm listening!”

Zevran jerked his head at Mio, bidding her to come closer, which she did, reluctantly. “Emi, this is Mio. Mio friend. _Amiga, Emi. Tu amiga._ ”

Another one of those hisses that stuttered, and the cat was turning large, inquisitive eyes on her. It looked from Zevran to her and back again a few times, before stretching his neck out sniffing in her direction. Cautiously, Miolanai raised her hand up, letting the large cat butt his nose into her palm. From there, it promptly nipped at the side of her hand. However, there was no pressure in it. Almost like Ser Iptitous would do when greeting her. 

She chuckled at Ember. “Hello. You're just a giant pussycat, huh?”

“And spoiled utterly rotten I tell you.” Zevran loosened his hold, and Ember dropped gracefully to the floor with a whump. “He may make like he is going to scratch or bite you, but generally it is only in play. This hissing he does? It is to tell you he is excited, and his squeaking, that is his happy sound.”

Miolanai squatted, even as Ember wound around her legs, nipping at her shin-guards, “I think Anders would have died and thought himself Maker-blessed if he ever met a feline like this.” At her feet, the spotted cat rolled onto his back, his forepaws wrapping around her ankle, and she felt instant purring begin when she started rubbing the cat's stomach. “He reminds me of Ser Iptitious a little bit. Big, playful and soft.”

There was an awkward silence between them, except Miolanai wasn't very aware of it, focused mainly on Ember, who had just discovered the ties on her greaves and was swatting at one of the strings. She was amazed at how gentle the cat was, because one moment Ember had flexed his paw, revealing how large and wicked his claws were, but whenever he wrapped a paw around one of Miolanai's fingers, the claws were retracted. 

“On a contract three years ago, I killed my mark,” the Crow began, moving to go sit on a peach-coloured, low footstool, “but I could hear this little strange sound.” 

Ember seemed to know he was being talked about and sat up partially facing his “papi” – which Miolanai thought might mean 'papa', but she couldn't be sure. It may sound similar to 'papa' or 'papae', however it could be anything at all. The cat gave a funny little grunt-yip and then returned his attention to her, rearing back on his hind legs and treating her to the same sort of soft bite he had given the Crow earlier. 

“So you found him?” She asked, sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, which Ember quickly hopped into and set to purring, loud and deep. 

Zevran waved a hand at the feline. “He was inside a small cage with almost no food or water. I took my mark far away from the city, whilst he was poaching. No one would have come across Ember for far too long. I could not leave him in good conscience, so I picked the lock on the cage and put him in my pack. There was an adolescent caracal that was also in a cage. It was rather hostile, but I set that free. The Drylands are such creatures’ homes, but many of the well-to-do like to keep them as pets. Ember is a serval and was domesticated rather easily with enough care and attention.” She watched him shift on the footstool, a sardonic expression on his face, “These small wildcats, they are fiendishly intelligent. The caracal followed me actually, and since I was six days out from Antiva City, I continued to feed him. Whenever I leave the city in that direction, it seems like he returns to me in the nights. I was well guarded, that I know, between the caracal and my horse.”

“And Ember?” She scratched behind his ears, watching as the eyes drifted open and closed in contentment.

“Ember would hop and jump when I lit my cook fire, attempting to catch the little sparks.” A smile pulled his lush mouth upwards, “He was a tiny thing, barely weaned. I did not know he would get so big, but he has been a good companion these years. I put in little ramps for him all around,” he said, pointing to the walls, “so he could climb and jump to his heart’s content.”

Miolanai gave the apartment another look, squinting, only just able to discern narrow shelves on the walls. They, too, were painted and blended in perfectly with the sea- and mountain-scapes. The Crow could say what he willed about his artistic ability, for he truly was gifted. 

Carefully, Miolanai stood, hanging onto Ember, who purred happily at being cuddled. He sure was heavy, weighing what had to be over three stone. She liked his silken fur and the vibrations of his purrs, and the way his huge ears flicked against her cheeks as he nosed at her jaw. Going to one of the walls, having long since forgotten the original intent of coming to Zevran's sanctuary, the Warden examined the painted plaster. She wasn't sure how long she did this, slowly moving as she took it all in, up to the black, wrought iron spiral staircase, but the smell of strongly spiced tea reached her nose.

Soft clinking of glass and tray came from the area where several couch-like piles of cushions sat. “I know you wish to spar Warden, but until you are ready, why not relax a little?”

Startled from her reverie, her meandering path around the wide-open flat having taken her up to a platform where a bed and two bookshelves were, she apologized. “I'm sorry Zevran. I didn't mean to snoop so much.”

He waved it off dismissively. “I do not entertain visitors much, and other than my housekeeper and her son who runs errands for me, I am...unaccustomed to people being in my home. It is...interesting to see how another takes my humble abode.”

“What's up there?” She pointed to the staircase.

“The roof. In the summers, it is hot, and with no true windows, I sleep up there.” He had removed his boots at some point, and his armour, having switched to black, loose, square-legged pants that were slung low on his muscular hips. For a shirt, he wore nothing but a mid thigh length fuchsia vest that was held shut by three ties near the center of his abdomen, showing off brawny arms, flashes of stomach and collarbone freely. Frankly the colour clash should have been unflattering, but adding in the fact that the Crow was clearly comfortable dressed like that and the small paint stains dotting the garments here and there, it actually didn’t detract from his attractiveness. “Also my pots of herbs, some vegetables, my rain barrels and my alchemical devices.”

Setting Ember down with a last stroke, she joined him down in the sitting area. “You have so many books. At the Vigil we had I think...two hundred. They cost a fortune, I suppose, but you have almost the same number on your shelves.”

Zevran poured tea into a cup for her and then for himself. “Did I not say that being a Crow has its rewards? I find living in a poorer section of the city allows me much funds for the...finer things. Good weapons, armour, books, things of that nature, yes? Besides, I would miss the smell of the tanneries if I were to live elsewhere.”

Wrinkling her nose, she looked at him askance. “The smell of cesspits is something you'd miss?”

One of those low, belly-warming laughs met her ears. “Oh yes! When I first was purchased by the Crows, they packed us in like crates into tiny apartments not very far from here. Ah – such interesting trouble I got into there. Good times.”

“Was it very hard being there?” curious, Miolanai weighed his expressions. He was rather guarded, even though he appeared open and relaxed, “Your training, was it so very bad?”

“Hmm...it was better than the alternative.” Shrugging, he blew on his tea before sipping, “Shall I tell you what happened to the other whorehouse boys who did not fetch a good price? No. Becoming a Crow, it was hard, yes. Studies in anatomy, math, alchemy – these things, they came all at once, along with learning how to fight, how to survive, beatings when you did not do things correctly. But if you did, you got a full belly and advanced on to the next levels.”

She noted the graceful way he sat, even when utterly still; he was like some languid cat, “I imagine you did real well, then.”

“Amongst the Crows, yes.” He shrugged, “One must survive not only the rigors of training, but your fellow trainees. It is something to be proud of.”

“How long you been a Crow?” leaning forward, Miolanai finally picked up her glass of tea, which was far more plain than the ones she had seen up until now, but no less well-made.

His head tilted to the side, amber eyes hooded, “And why would you wish to know? Suffice to say that it is longer than you have been alive.”

Blinking, Miolanai did the math. If he had been bought at the age of seven, then he had to be a minimum of seven years older than her. That would put him at the least in the vicinity of thirty-two. However, she thought he might be older than that. From the way he spoke, it was like he had had many years of experience and more tales to tell than a room full of bards. Even though he didn’t appear to be much older than herself, older than her, yes, but not vastly so.

Nose crinkling, she changed the subject, “So, tell me about your adventures, then, if you been a Crow so long.”

He gave a sharp bark of laughter, “What? Am I some old man to be shaking my fist at children, reminiscing about the good old days?”

“Aren't you?” she asked, needling him.

“Pfah! Fifty-eight is hardly an old man!” the words were a rough, incredulous scoff. “I may have had many apprentices in the last twenty years, but none of them were ever so cheeky as you!”

“Wow, you're old,” she remarked, surprised. “My father’s forty-eight.”

That gave him pause, obviously, for he went completely and utterly still, “My dear, my only reply to that would sound excessively rude.”

“I'm hard to offend,” she replied, shrugging, and took a long sip of her tea.

“Then allow me to say this – there is a vast difference between a poorly-fed carpenter from an Alienage in a backwater country, and a man who has been raised well-fed, for the most part...” he set his cup down, gaze steady, as he continued, “Who has never had to worry for lack of a healer, and who never had to cope with the loss of his wife and subsequently raise three children, two of whom were excruciatingly rambunctious. No. I am as fit as a man your age and shall stay that way for quite some time, Maker willing. Crows who make it to my age are either Crow Masters, or things to be feared. Death comes swiftly to those of us who are unable or unwilling to remain healthy.”

Grunting, Miolanai finished her tea, muttering, “You'll live way longer than me, no doubt about that. I won't make it past fifty, fifty-five.” Banishing the foul thought from her mind, she stood abruptly. “You should put your armour back on. I hit hard when I spar.”

“Has no one ever told you that the true measure of skill is knowing how to pull your strikes while seeming to put your entire strength behind them?” Annoyingly, he remained seated. “Humour me and put on a spare set of my sparring tunic and pants. I wish to examine how you move in a fight while the view is not blocked by bulky armour, and we shall use my rattan weapons, not live steel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola, guapa - hey, cute girl  
> Mira la diversión - you look like a bit of fun  
> Necesitas un hombre verdardero, chica, enséñele una lección - she needs a real man to show her, her place (aprox)  
> Hola, madre! Tu estas bien - hello mother, how are you?  
> Bien, bien, guapo - good, good, handsome  
> Mierda, no se - Shit, don’t know (the word)  
> Aquí, Dieda, por ti y familia - Here/have, Dieda, for you and your family  
> Mi casa, es su casa. - my home, is your home  
> Amiga, Emi. Tu amiga - Friend, Emi, your friend


	4. Chapter 4

XXX  
Guild-ed 4  
XXX

"On the bed, there is a pair of pants and a shirt. Put them on, if you please, as I am in no mood to put my own armour back on,” he nodded towards his sleeping area. “So, you shall learn how to pull your strikes the way a proper fighter would."

"No. I want to spar." Her jaw was set and stubborn; Zevran had rarely seen someone make that face and have it seem so natural. Probably because it was the expression she was born with, or at least it seemed so.

Sighing patiently, he reclined fully, gesturing at his foot, "See this? What is it?"

"Your foot," as her full mouth was pressed to a fine line, eyes narrowed. Oh, he knew he was pushing her, but he was fairly sure she wouldn't start hacking and such just because he tore at her nerves. It would probably take at least him being flat-out rude before she decided it was a worthwhile idea.

"Yes, my foot. It is down. As is the other one," he said, tapping his toes lightly on the floor without raising either foot from the carpet. Waving another hand at himself, as he leaned back, arms half draped over the back of his couch. "And this? What is this?"

"A stubborn Crow who is being difficult. I want to spar, old man, not trade rejoinders!" she snapped at him.

Must she truly continue with calling him _old_? It was irritating! By no means was Zevran vain, but he did fancy himself well-preserved as it were, and still handsome enough to give most anyone a run for their money. He was not fanatical about his upkeep, but he did take care of himself. Most of the time. Well, when he could be bothered.

Smiling slightly at the Warden, aware it would aggravate her, he said, “Then why not do an 'old' man a favour, and spare him the burden of being so soundly beaten by such a young whippersnapper?” Crossing his legs, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, “Why not put me through my paces, but kindly, so as to not wound my delicate self, hmmn? Humour this positively ancient creature that I am, before it is time for my nap and mashed greens.”

He could hear Miolanai muttering to herself, “Yeast-eyed, ass-bandit...”

“Pardon, did you say something?” he asked, cracking a lid as he heard her rise to finally go to do as he had said.

“Nothin’, you recalcitrant, mash eatin’, haughty nughumper,” she spit, veritably stomping up the five steps to the raised platform, heading towards his bed.

Zevran had to muffle his laugh. “Oh, I must apologize, I had not heard you. Not because I was ignoring you, mind, but because currently you are being rather insignificant.”

The only reply was a growl and the sound of armour being dropped on his hardwood floors. Good thing he had a housekeeper with a young son who was well acquainted with elbow grease. They would have their work cut out for them, cleaning up after Miolanai.

XXX

She was rather fetching, he supposed, in his clothes, although they didn't fit in the chest so well, seeing as he didn't have breasts. But, hers were bound tightly, making the displacement of fabric minimal, and he could be magnanimous as he had beaten her a full half of the time during their sparring. However, he would have bruises from this. Miolanai had no concept of how to pull her strikes at all. She was brutishly strong, fast and accurate – an exceptionally deadly combination. So, sweaty now as she was, the blue silk of a thigh-length vest clinging to her body, flushed and eyes bright...the Warden was zealously vibrant and full of life in a way he had yet to see her before.

They had spent the last two hours trading blows and verbal jabs, which appeared to be something she had very much needed. And if the fact of how sore his own muscles were was any indication, this was something he had needed as well. It had been at least a year or so since someone had truly put him through his paces, forcing him to work until exhausted and then continue with the sparring session. Yes, his stamina was honed, a result of decades of dedication, but fights rarely ever went beyond a handful of minutes without some break. 

At last, he called a halt to the session. "Enough. It is enough. You fight like a beast, ravaging and indiscriminate. Deadly, to be sure, but that is not always the goal. Consider Emi, eh?" He mopped at his face with a rag, dropping the practice sword onto the rack, "I play with him all the time, but if he did not know how to pull his claws, I could not play with him at all, yes?" 

He watched as Miolanai continued a few practice feints, the points of the rattan blades dipping and swaying. “I s’ppose. But he's a cat, I'm a Warden. I fight to kill.” 

“And Emi does not? He is fully capable of feeding himself,” he retorted, scoffing at her. “He is a wild creature who is also playful. You, too, are a wild creature, yet you cannot seem to differentiate between 'sparring' and 'attacking', let alone ‘play’. They are worlds apart in intent and meaning. Sparring is a learning tool, or a tool to work off energy or stay in trim. It can also be for play.” Demonstrating, he lunged forward, barehanded, and grabbed her wrists, yanking her into him, so they were chest to chest, before leaning in and nipping at the side of her neck. Only once, just to prove the point. “Playful. See?” 

She jerked forward, her head snapping towards his as though she truly intended on headbutting him. Zevran only narrowly ducked to the side when he realized that the Warden had every intention of ramming her forehead into his face. He hissed grappling with her, until he was standing behind her, his arms hooked beneath her armpits, making 'L's out of his own arms, and leaning backwards until her feet were no longer on the floor. _Aiesh! Wild child!_

“Put me down!” It was a grunt, and he felt Miolanai go limp, except the muscles of her back were tight where they pressed to his stomach and chest. “You caught me off-guard. Put me down.” 

He shook his head. “Tchk, I think not. I value my body-parts remaining as the Maker designed them. So, not until I believe you have calmed.” There was a growl, and she began thrashing in his arms, so Zevran had to compensate by bracing his feet further. “Ah, see? I knew it. Woman, I know every trick in the book that is worth knowing. Do not think that you, even with all your battle experience, can stand in a solo fight against someone raised with the most vicious and dirtiest fighters that Thedas has ever had the misfortune of spawning.” 

There was a hiss. “Fine. Just...put me down.” 

“Hmm.” Narrowing his eyes in thought, Zevran waited until she ceased her thrashing. “Can you tell me what the difference is between the intention of what I did versus what you have reacted to?” 

“Will you put me down? I'm not some child to hoist in the air!” It came from between clenched teeth. 

It was progress at least. 

“If you tell me, then yes, I will,” he assented merely glad that, as tired as he was, he could even maintain a hold on the young elf. 

Miolanai was quiet for several long minutes, then she huffed, “You were goofin’ off in demonstration. I took it like an attack.” 

Gently the Crow set the Warden back down, slowly stepping back, cautious; he half-expected her to still turn on him. “Basically, yes. That would be correct. You must learn to separate intention from consequence.” Cocking his head, he watched her as he searched for the right words. “In Ferelden, if you were sparring with...Alistair, your fellow Warden. If he had made such a move, would you have attacked him?”

“‘course not!” she protested, snorting. “Except he wouldn't have done that in the first place.” 

He continued, pressing his point, “But if he had? You would not have attacked him, yes?” 

She crossed her arms, looking away from him. “No. I wouldn't have. But...I don't know you. I knew him.” 

Stretching back, he moaned quietly as one of his vertebrae popped, “Then this is the first thing to learn. I am unable to hurt or harm you in any way so long as I am sworn to your service.” Relaxing into a comfortable stance, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. “Would you like a breakdown of what that means, or can you understand it without me having to give you all the gory details?” 

That stubborn set to her jaw had returned, “I'm not stupid.” 

“No, you are not stupid,” he nodded, agreeing readily. “You are tough, blunt and canny. Not stupid. Merely so straightforward that seeing the forest is difficult, what with all the trees in the way.” Ember had come up to him and was chirping up at him, rearing back and patting at his thigh, begging for attention. The large cat's paws spread all the way with each knead on the silk of Zevran's pants, but only the tips of his claws were showing. Leaning down, the bronze elf stroked one paw gently, teasing at a claw. “He is so careful, _mi gato bonito_. His intention is to grab my attention, not to hurt me. Miolanai, my dear, you will have to learn to be like Ember, if you wish to not merely survive, but to live.” 

“So, you want me to be like you and your pet.” Arms uncrossing, she began to pace. “I ain’t a cat, or an assassin like you. Everythin’ I know was taught by the school of survival. Unlike you, I never had any teachers other than my mother. No one taught me art or how to cook or how to make poison like you do. Each thing I know, I had to fight and bleed for.” 

Squatting so he could better pet Ember, Zevran watched her, a shade of pity in his mind, “Do you think that I did not have to fight and bleed for every single thing I know? Perhaps you are right. Not all things I had to fight and bleed for at all. In fact, some of them, I had to sell bits of my soul to obtain. You are not the only person in this world who suffers, or has suffered.” 

The young woman halted, her shoulders slumping, “I'm not so selfish that I think or believe that. I just...I would rather that other people not have to suffer.” 

“Hmm...martyr then? Is that a title you would rather have?” he asked, seeking to pick apart what made this girl-woman tick. 

“No!” The first was almost shouted, but the second, was much softer. “No. No I don't. Not at all.” 

“Then what do you want?” he softened his tone, letting the steely edge slip away. “How is anyone to ever know what another wants if they are not told? If things are not explained? Think, Miolanai. Use the brain that the Maker gave you.” 

She was staring at his wall again, one of her hands moving to trace the ridge of a crest in the mural, “I don't wanna be a hero. I don't wanna always need to watch my back. I want...I want to be able to believe that not everyone is out for themselves.” There was a barely audible swallow. “I don't wanna hafta always defend everyone. Sometimes...I'd like to be protected. Yet...when people try to do that, they die. All of them. My mother, my betrothed, my brother....” Miolanai trailed away from the open practicing area, going to flop on one of his cushion-couches. “Every time someone tries to protect me, they die. So, I'm stuck with havin’ to be ever-vigilant. So, every attack, every potential attack – I have to end, to strike first. To finish everything. There's no respite.”

“Then we shall have to see about making such a chance, yes?” he offered, gaining some instant understanding with what she had said. 

_Everyone, even amongst the poorest of the poor, vilest of the vile, have moments of true peace,_ he thought, the thread of pity welling upwards. _A moment in a safe place to simply be. No wonder she is as she is._ Now he suddenly knew why she had sought out such a different place from Ferelden, but the problem was making her see the differences, understand them, and then accept them. It also let him know why Ignacio had chosen him for this assignment. Zevran was famous for rehabilitating those sent to him, reclaiming them for the Guild, so the Guild didn't lose out on all the time and money invested in their weapons. 

There was a barked laugh. “And then you’ll die too? Just like everyone else. For someone that you were practically given to. Like some prize goat.” 

In hopes of earning a real laugh out of her, he retorted, “Ah, then I suppose I should say 'Baah-baah'.” 

The Warden choked, spinning to stare at him, “Wha-what?”

“Baah,” he bleated again, grinning at her.

“Dear Maker, have you taken leave of your senses?” she sputtered, except he could tell she was trying so hard not to laugh.

“Baah.” He winked saucily. “Ah, so now I have played the part of a goat, do you not think we should have a bit to drink? I believe I have had enough of making an ass of myself.”

“You were bleatin’, not brayin’,” she rolled her large, green eyes at him, leaning up off the couch enough to make a face at him over the back of the sofa. “Wrong animal.” 

“Pah, details, my dear,” giving Ember a last pat to the rump, he stood, “are not always so important, so long as they make you laugh.” His look turned sly – purposefully – as he cupped his chin. “So, I suppose this makes you my shepherd?” 

“Isn't a shepherd's job to keep the wolves at bay?” he saw the Warden shift around so her legs dangled over the couch-back, waving in the air. 

He moved into her line of sight, “True enough. Perhaps then you are the one who should be bleating for my amusement?” 

“Only if you promise to whack me with your big stick to keep me in line,” her head was almost touching the floor, upside down as she was. 

Truly, he shouldn't be surprised, but he had only known her for a day, really. They were both flirts in their own ways; it was merely that, while he vacillated between flirting and introspection, she flipped between violence and flirting. Then again, if the usual consequence of her relaxing was people dying, he could understand the violent streak even more. Especially when it was compared to the open-handed way she had dealt with Dieda and the flash of compassion she had shown him earlier that morning. 

“Tchk, you have been looking? And here I thought you were too occupied with staring at my murals to spare me a glance as I changed.” Sitting near her, but not too close, he propped his feet up on the small table, scooting the tea tray with a toe. 

“Hardly.” Her legs tensed, the muscles standing up beneath the fine fabric of her borrowed pants, and she cupped her hands behind her head, and began to do a few of those weird 'sit-ups'. 

Laying a hand on her knee – he worked best with touch he had found over the years – he tried to reassure her, “Surely you should try and relax, at least somewhat, here. This is my home, and it is not a place frequented by the unsavoury, other than myself.” 

“Mph, they relax me, gotta, umf,” she grunted, folding so her chin almost touched her knees, “keep the muscles of my back and stomach strong. They are what holds this house of cards together.” 

He let her continue this for awhile, but did not remove his hand. Zevran had long since noticed that touch, even something so simple as this innocent thing, was what seemed to get through to people like Miolanai after awhile, far more than steady words, reaffirmation, and positive reinforcement ever could. Touch like this was rare for most soldiers – for heroes or Crows or villains – to receive and could gain more headway in putting doors in the walls of the damage they had gained over time. Walls had a purpose, but if they could accept nothing past them, then outside forces would eventually break them down, leaving nothing to defend the inner places in a person's soul and mind. 

After a time, he stood once more and went to his bathing area, searching for a vial of something potent. There had been bags under the young elf's eyes when he met her yesterday afternoon, and they had not lessened by this morning. A journey would wear anyone out, even someone so stoic; however, the Warden would refuse the suggestion of a nap, just as she had scoffed at the suggestion of a day or two of rest. Frowning at the vial, with its thick, clear contents, he pried the stopper out. Covering the glass lip with a fingertip, he shook it once to gather just enough to dampen the pad of his finger. Then, he swiped it over his bottom lip. Recorking the vial of _duerma miel_ , he put it away and returned to the sitting area, where the Warden was still doing sit-ups. She must have done five hundred by now, and adding that to the two hundred of the morning, the long walk, the scuffle, and the two hours of sparring – she had to be exhausted. No one was that impervious to fatigue. 

Pretending would only make her situation worse. So, in spite of the faint misgiving that coiled in his stomach, Zevran waited until she was on a downwards move before he knelt beside her. Under most circumstances, he would have bedded the woman already, but she required a particular deft care, and since this assignment was indefinite, he would have to be delicate in his approach. However, her blood should no longer be hot from practice, and the Crow figured he could get away with pushing her a little in this. The risk was outweighed by the potential benefit. 

Miolanai paused, eyes popping open to look at him inquisitively. “Huh?” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you possess a most delectable mouth?” he murmured, touching her chin. 

She blinked rapidly, confused. “Only people who were drunk or tryin’ to get somethin’ from me. You're not drunk, so what are you tryin; to get?” 

“A kiss.” Leaning forward, he paused a hairsbreadth from her mouth. “Is that such a strange thing to desire?” 

“Why?” she remained still, only looking vaguely befuddled. 

Tangling a hand in the hair at the back of her skull, he purred, “I am a sensualist if you must know.” 

“And so that makes you want to kiss me? For no other reason?” an eyebrow rose high on her forehead.

“I need more reason than that?” Only narrowly, he remembered not to lick his lip. The drug's effects were rather fast, and even he would succumb to it quickly, no more than five or ten minutes before it would have him crawling to a place to sleep. Miolanai would cave to it at least that fast, if not far more quickly. “My dear, you do not look in the mirror often, obviously. You have a very soft mouth when you are not glowering fit to strike people dead. So, I find myself curious indeed to find out what it would be like. Since we shall be in close company for quite some time, I expect, does it not make sense to at least be...comfortable with each other?” 

“Just one kiss.” A sort of resigned shrug of 'eh, why not?' was coupled with her lids drooping, giving her permission. 

Closing the remaining distance, Zevran sucked on her upper lip, which caused her to suck on his bottom lip. Which was very important. Through his lashes he watched her face relax into the kiss, her tongue slipping over his lip. He was surprised, he had mostly thought she would be all grabbing mouth and lips and teeth, none of this soft touch. Sighing through his nose, changing the angle, he allowed his own tongue to slip between her parted lips, licking at her teeth and the roof of her mouth. There was a soft, pleased moan that came from her, the vibration tickling the back of his throat. Smiling into the kiss, his lids fell the rest of the way shut, giving in to the sensation. 

When it ended, Miolanai blinked up at him. “Hmm... I haven't been kissed like that by a man...ever.” 

“Ah, and by women?” Sitting on the floor, he leaned against the couch. 

“Men always make me feel like they're trying to chomp my head off.” There was a faint yawn as she rolled off the couch to sit beside him. “Women are nice and soft, but not too soft. Well, the ones I liked that is. I didn't like the ones who were too pliant, made me feel like I was with a squishy corpse.” 

He made a face. “Mmmm...enchanting. Never shall I view a woman who gives herself up so entirely to my attentions that she does not bother to react much, the same way ever again.” He hid how the fuzziness was slipping into his brain, making his vision vaguely foggy. “And here I had always believed that they were merely boring. Now I will always feel like a necrophiliac whenever I am subjected to such encounters.” 

A jaw-cracking yawn came from the Warden. “Ugh. Hey, we should go back to the um...other place. I'm...actually kinda beat.” 

“Tired, my dear?” He maintained a clear-headed countenance only through long practice. 

“Kinda actually, yeah.” Standing with a grunt, she was slurring or falling back into the gutter-rolled accent of her native Alienage. “I guess I ain’t realize how little I had left ta give. Maybe yer right, and I shoulda taken today off.” 

Standing, Zevran went to take a firm, concerned hold on her arm. “Please, if you are tired, feel free to rest. My home is yours, yes?” 

She shook her head, once, “Nah. Yer too awake, and you'll be movin' 'round an’...shit. Twitchy sleeper. Remember?” 

“I can read a book,” he countered, tugging her towards his sleeping platform. As if to demonstrate, he made a show of picking a book of legends from his shelf, and held it up to her. “You can sleep, and I will not be moving around at all. Nothing to disturb your sleeping mind.” 

Miolanai gave a little sigh. “Maybe yer right.” 

“Come,” he murmured, urging her to the bed and pushing her to sit on the edge of it as he pulled the covers back. “Rest, Warden. You look as though you are about to fall over.” 

The elf yawned, scratching her stomach. “I really shouldn't be so tired, so suddenly. Should I?” 

“Perhaps your earlier weariness combined with the tea?” he offered.

“The tea?” She startled, stiffening slightly. “What was in the tea?” 

“Some of the herbs make one relaxed, it is only a mild effect,” he reassured her, which was absolutely the truth. “Hops and passion flower, roses, lavender... these are known for relaxing and soothing. However, when combined with the traveling you have done, and then this sparring, it is no wonder you are so tired.” 

The Warden scooted around, yawning, as she slipped beneath the blankets, “I wish I had some of my frost runes with me.” 

“Oh?” he asked, tucking the blankets around her, like she were a child, almost. 

“S'hot here,” she mumbled, eyes drifting open and closed. “I hate bein' over...heated. Like ta...sleep with a _dar'misu_ with a frost rune...wrapped in a...blanket...keeps me...cool...” Her voice was dreamy, and she was drifting off slowly. 

Struggling through the effects he himself was suffering from, the Crow only nodded. “I am going to go put out the oil lamps.” 

“Mph, make...noise. I will...know it's you,” she mumbled through another yawn, clearly forcing herself to sit up and remain awake. 

“Ah, only friends make a sound, yes?” He agreed with the theory, as it was the same conclusion his own personal experience had lead him to. Anyone sneaking had an ulterior motive, and even his sleeping mind knew it, always causing him to slam into wakefulness, ready to kill. “Then I shall be careful to make enough noise for you, Warden.” 

She was rather admirable. Most would have crashed completely by now. However, her ability to resist the tonic's effects meant that he himself would have to last long enough, while appearing unimpaired, so as not to arouse suspicion later on. As he went about putting out the hidden lamps that he used to shed light on his flat – a series of mirrors made it possible for him to use only a few lamps – he wrapped his right hand around his left forearm and dug his thumb into the meat and muscle, rooting for that hard place and pressed. Agony shot up from the crystalline hard bit, sending a jolt of adrenaline through him, giving Zevran enough will to continue against the effects. Grateful that his task was completed so quickly, he mounted the steps and saw that Miolanai was still sitting up. Blood was trickling down her lip as she fought sleep. 

“Ah, you waited up?” Knowing he had continued to keep each of his footsteps heavy enough to make noise, he chuckled as he joined the young woman on the bed. Grimacing internally, he wondered how much longer he could ward off sleep himself and opened his book. “Go on, rest, my dear. I shall not move from this spot.” 

Miolanai nodded, once more laying down. “Emi?”

Zevran whistled sharply once, and the cat came bounding towards them, hopping on the bed, “Is nocturnal. He was only waiting to be invited to bed.” 

Ember squeed at him, rubbing his cheek on Zevran's knee, before climbing higher on him to pin him to the bed with his upper chest. Stroking the soft fur of the hunting cat, the Crow continued to act as though he were reading, even when his vision blurred. It was a point of pride and honour. It was not until the Warden beside him fell fully into drug-induced slumber, that Zevran set aside his book, removed his clothes, slipped under the topmost cover and allowed himself to close his own eyes.

XXX

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Zevran took stock. There was a face pressed in that spot between his shoulder blades, warm, moist breath falling against the line of his spine. He was lying partially on his stomach, an arm hanging off the side of his bed, and his legs were tangled and pinned with the weight of the Warden and three stone of serval. His internal time-sense told him it was early evening, just around sunset. That meant that in an hour or two, Sula would be stopping by to look over his home and do the necessary things like water his plants, feed Ember, and other chores. There were locks on his door, but the Crow never bothered with them, so there would be little warning of Sula's approach, which could startled Miolanai. 

“Locks only stop honest people” was something that Rinna had always loved to say, and since all the honest people – as well as semi-honest ones – on this street knew him, they didn't bother with doing a dirty turn to someone who contributed to their community so much. So, locks were not something Zevran bothered with here. Besides, how would Ember get out if something happened to the building while no one was there to let him out? The feline knew how to leave the flat and navigate door handles, and even simple locks, on his own. Mostly no one in the building barred their doors, which was good, as Ember had already been known to slip in and out of people's apartments, generally to say “hello” but sometimes for better reasons than that. Like to take down a husband who was beating his wife in the flat below Zevran's, as had happened once before. 

Ember and Zevran were as much fixtures of this street as the tannery stench, old women sweeping their stoops, and the children running around screaming as they played. In fact, Ember was so well-known that he was more like a talisman for luck than anything else. Women would be overjoyed at Ember rearing back and rubbing his head on their stomachs – which was taken as a sign that they were fertile or already carrying a child. Men were sure that the serval could spot liars, for if there was anyone that Ember didn't like, it meant that there was nothing to like about that person. As for children, he was a pet and a toy and a protector. So everyone loved Ember, probably more than Zevran himself, or that's what the Crow thought, at least.

Rubbing his face, he stretched his shoulders carefully, not wishing to dislodge the Warden. This was a deep sleep she was in, and if the rustling he had heard last night from her room was any indication, then it was a rare occurrence. Part of why the _duerma miel_ was so addictive, and so dangerous, was not only due to how fast it acted, but for the dreamless sleep it imparted, and he reflected as he slowly tensed and relaxed his muscles, because it didn't make one any more groggy than usual upon wakening. For him, the drug was only used for two reasons: if he had no other recourse to gain needed rest, or for targets. His philosophy was to use the gentlest of methods for divesting targets of their lives, whenever possible. Women he usually tried to put to sleep, if at all possible, after a sound round of lovemaking. Men were a fifty-fifty chance on if he had to fight them or had the ability to drug them. Either way, the Crow usually went about things in the manner that seemed the most natural.

Death may be sudden, it may be unreasoning, but it didn't always have to be horrible and cruel. 

“Uhhhn...” A low moan was mumbled into his back, accompanied by some thrashing that tossed almost all of the covers over him. “'m too hot.”

Surprised that the _duerma miel_ had worn off so quickly – he had expected her to be asleep for a little while longer – Zevran shifted most of the silk spreads to the floor. “And yet you are plastered to me.”

“Mmm...yeah, but you make an awesome pillow.” Languid scooting resulted in a leg being thrown over one of his thighs as she pressed close. “I swear, I need to get me one of you, just to keep like this. You are, seriously, one of the most comfortable things to sleep on I've ever come across.”

“I take it that means you slept well?” he asked, shifting back into her a little.

He was an unabashed sensualist, after all, and it felt pleasant to have someone pressed so close to him. It was a thing he rarely got the chance to indulge in, as most of his partners the last few years had been marks and sleeping was usually not something he was busy doing with them. Except in one instance, but it had been a child he had been hired to kill by the parents – a sickly one, who had been dying a painful death. Zevran had spent the night telling the little boy stories, with the child cradled in his arms, holding off until the boy saw one last sunrise, before giving him enough poison to slip into the Fade forever. That time, the Crow had fallen into a doze, unwilling to leave the child alone even in death, until the body had cooled, at least. 

It was a horrible thing, in Zevran's mind, that the parents of a dying child would have been labeled murderers and possibly prosecuted if they had ended their son's misery. That had left them no recourse but to hire the Guild for the job. Only a Crow could get away with murder in Antiva with any sort of ease. Sometimes that seemed just the tiniest bit unjust. So, often, Zevran found himself the instrument of fate – be it the blade of the Maker's wrath, the comfort of an easier passing or the lashing out as a physical means of removing irritants. 

“Mmmn, yeah actually,” she said, and then her weight was gone, rolling away from him as she moaned again, the bed shifting as she stretched. “Maker, it's been a long time since I could say that.”

Slipping from the bed, Zevran raised his arms over his head, bending back until his spine cracked, then raked a hand through his hair, turning towards Miolanai. “Well, feel free to avail yourself of my pillow-like services whenever you need. An unrested woman is impossible to deal with, I have found.”

Her head lolled as she cracked an eye open, looking at him. There was a pause and a squint. “You're naked. When'd you get naked?”

“Before I fell asleep.” Shrugging, he grabbed his pants with deft toes, kicking them into the air so he could catch them. “It is a habit that I find I am loathe to break. I, too, do not rest well when overheated.”

“Seems impractical to me, what if there's an attack?” Sitting up, the Warden was greeted by Ember scooting and draping his long body across her lap, with his silken coat of spots and stripes, like someone had dipped their fingers in black paint before touching the cat all over. 

Casually the Crow went to the low railing on the side of his platform that overlooked his kitchen area and vaulted it. “Unlikely to happen here, and I have fought nude before. It is rather freeing. I only have to watch for blades coming too close to ah...certain areas.” Propping his chin on the railing, he gave her an amused look, “And most are usually so surprised by a nude, usually partially aroused, male fighting like a demon that they falter. I find it always amusing to see their expressions.”

She snickered. “I think it'd be sortafunny too – their last sight is of an erect pecker – and just slightly ironic, as I'm sure most of your targets are _shems_. So, to be taken down by an elf, of all things, one who seems rather...pleased...by it, would be the lowest blow of all.” The Warden clambered from the bed, shooing Ember from it, as she bent to make the bed. “So, is that a tactic taught by the Guild?”

“Mmm, no,” he watched as the young woman put everything back in order. “It is a personal affectation, something I picked up in the whorehouse. Nudity is simply nudity. The true art is in playing games of hide-and-seek, partially veiling the body and unveiling it. That is far more arousing, as it leaves one guessing what lies beneath.”

There was a laugh, “Oh then you'd _love_ Ferelden. Never know what you're gonna to get until you unwrap it!”

“Hmn – quite. Then it is good that I have varied and nimble tastes, for no matter what lay underneath those furs, I would be content,” pushing away from the railing, he went to his kitchen. 

“Ah, don't you think you could do better, then?” her voice traveled the distance easily. 

Smirking as he pulled out a small pot, he filled it with water and then added in ground spices. “See, 'better' is always trying to do 'best.’ Maybe I could do 'better', but I prefer to do 'just fine'.”

There was some quiet as she clearly had to mull that wordplay over for a moment, and then, one of her trademark laughs, half-snort, half-guffaw, issued. “Maker's breath, you're terrible!”

Shrugging, not sure if she could see it nor not, Zevran lit the coal burner after checking the flue that carried smoke outside. “I know, I know. Tchk, you are so cruel pointing a man's flaws out so endlessly.” Satisfied that the water would simmer the way he wanted it to, he turned back to look at her, “My housekeeper, Sula, will be stopping by soon. I shall tell her to send Aedur to fetch some clothes for you.”

“I told you, my armour and such are my normal clothes,” there was an edge to the words. 

“Your normal here, Warden, will get you killed.” Moving to his work desk, Zevran dug out a piece of paper and a pen. Neatly, he made a list of items that Aedur would have to procure, “Say what you will, this is the truth, Miolanai, of Antiva. If you choose to leave Antiva and return to Ferelden, your usual mode shall do fine, but this is Antiva and not your native stomping grounds, so between the two of us, I am the expert.”

“What if I refuse?” she asked belligerently, and he could hear her already buckling her armour on in the background.

Opening a drawer, he counted out coins, depositing them into a stitched green pouch as he maintained a calm tone, “Then we shall be attacked until such a time that the authorities must take action. The Guild can only provide so much legal protection, and once certain boundaries are crossed, Hero of the Blight or no, you will be at the very least exiled. Most likely, you would be given to a prison, and war would be the result as Ferelden or the Anderfels would be provoked. People would die in excess, and all because you wished to traipse around in places where you should not, dressed in a provocative manner.” Holding out his hand, he added, “Now, give me two of the four sovereigns you pilfered like a common bandit from those misbegotten thugs. I have the coin to pay for the things that must be ordered entirely on my own, but I feel that it should also be partially your responsibility.”


	5. Chapter 5

XXX  
Guild-ed 5  
XXX

Squirming in the slit thigh pantaloons she was wearing, Miolanai tugged at her fitted tunic. “I look ridiculous.”

The Crow was sitting on the floor, a pad and charcoal pencil in hand, sketching, “Only because you wiggle like a spoilt child. Now cease your wriggling and stay still.”

“It's...orange,” she observed, dubiously frowning at the tunic with its wild embroidery in gold and silver threads. “I don't like it. And whose idea was it to put teal pants with _orange_?”

“Mine,” he grunted as he rolled a glance up to her. 

“I ain’t wearin’ this,” she declared, wrinkling her nose at it even as the stout, dark-haired Sula fussed around her.

Miolanai was glaring at the partially-unwrapped pile of packages, clothes spilling all over the floor. There was no way she was going to wear any of it. None of it was anything she could fight in. Granted, the materials felt nice on her skin – lightweight and cool – but they were utterly impractical. Jerking away when Sula tried to tuck her hair into some sort of weird flat clips, the Warden wanted nothing more than to pull her armour back on.

The Crow scooted from his place on the floor to the couches, fishing out various items, then tossed them to Sula, “Try these.”

Growling, Miolanai tromped to the bathroom area and changed behind one of the screens. Sula was hovering and hadn't made any comment about the scars on her body, but there had been a flash of surprise that the Warden had caught in the older woman's eyes before it was quickly covered. Silver embroidery in strange paisley patterns ran the length of a teal tunic, with the plunging V-neck having a heavier encrusting of threads and blood red beads stitched in amongst it all. It was summarily yanked over her head, followed by her legs being stuffed into a different pair of pantaloons with broad, winding stripes of eggplant and thinner ones of maroon, which were fitted from the knee down, but she found that the thighs were slit. The length of the tunic covered this fact, and she surmised that this was on purpose. Having bare arms felt strange, as did the fact that she wasn't in trews and linen tunic, but she did have to admit that at least she didn't feel like she was baking for once. 

Sula draped a light, maroon scarf around her arms, tucking it so that it looped around her upper arms above her elbows, as she said, “Good look. You like?”

Managing to not glower at the woman, she muttered, “It's...acceptable...for a costume.”

The _shem_ nodded approvingly, motioning for her to return to Zevran for inspection. Her bare feet slapped the polished wood floor, Ember bouncing around her and chirping happily. If she had known that she was going to be subjected to all this, she would have stayed in Ferelden. As much as she hated the place, she hated feeling vulnerable even more. Plus, this meant she would have to depend on the Crow for all of her physical protection. Such a thing was unacceptable. She vowed silently that if it came down to it, then she would remain in the more mixed areas, where plenty of foreigners were – including armed and armoured women – rather than deal with this again.

Zevran's expression was interesting – guarded, she decided – as she came into his view. “You are not wearing boots, my dear, do not stomp as though you are. It makes you look awkward.” He reached out, grabbing one of her arms, and clapped a strange bracelet around her wrist and lower forearm. “Hmm...not quite enough.” The Crow turned around, fishing out more jewelry, and quickly grabbed her other arm, shoving silver, garnet encrusted bangles over her hand. “There. Now you look wealthy enough to afford a Crow bodyguard.”

“I only look awkward because of all this!” Waving at herself, she rattled the bangles on her arm at him in irritation.

Infuriatingly he laughed. “No, you look beautiful as you are. Except your manner – it is as if someone stuck a Templar into fine women’s clothes. Now, sit down, so I can put the finishing touches on.”

Eyes widening, Miolanai backed away. “Oh no. No more. I don't even wanna to know what else you've got in mind!”

“Just a little paint, everyone wears it,” he held a small pallet that contained several small hard cakes of colours and a brush in one hand. 

“I don't see _you_ wearing any!” she snapped waspishly. 

“I have not left my flat, and yesterday I had just woken up when I was called to attend you.” He was crowding her, and Miolanai backed up instinctively, until she hit one of the chairs and landed with a grunt, “And this morning, you did not allow me the time.”

Jerking her head this way and that, she held up her hands, hoping to fend him off, “Fine, then you can be the one in this getup, and I'll play the bodyguard. You'd look better in this than me, anyway!”

“While I have no problem with dressing as a woman,” he was chuckling as he squatted before her, setting the pallet to one side, twirling the brush over one of the cakes, “you are far more obviously female than I could ever look, while I am far more male in appearance than you could ever hope to look. So, you see, the roles are dictated by the nature of our births. Now, hold still.”

Wincing when he grabbed her chin, Miolanai sucked in deep breaths. At least Sula had gone to the kitchen, and Aedur was up on the roof doing whatever had to be done with Zevran's plants. That meant there was no audience to see her so thoroughly humiliated. The brush tickled around her eyes as, with delicate strokes, the Crow painted her face. She was sure she would look like a doxy by the time he was finished. In fact, no one could be more surprised than she was when, after Zevran finished with her make-up, he moved to apply some on himself. Just around the eyes, she noted, in thin black lines that made his naturally slanted eyes even more so. 

“Why are you wearing that anyway?” she asked, finding that curiosity was getting the better of her.

He hummed, looking in the small mirror, “It cuts the glare of reflected light so I do not have to squint.” The mirror was passed to her, “Take a look at yourself. You look quite lovely.”

Taking the mirror as if it would poison her, she intended to only cast a cursory glance, but she had to stop in surprise. No, she didn't look like a dock whore at all. Or even a whore. Or like the women in Ferelden did when they slathered on their facepaints. She looked...soft. 

“I look like a girl!” she exclaimed, gasping in surprise.

Beside her, Zevran laughed throatily, “I should hope so!”

There were little designs at the outer corners of her eyes sweeping upwards faintly, as well as three little dots below her tear ducts traversing the under lashes of her eyes. A rim of purple framed her eyes with an overlay of black, and her lips looked as if she had just bitten them. This was wholly unfamiliar. She was used to looking as though someone had slapped her on each cheek, and then splashed a tin of powdered paint on her lids if she was forced to wear women's paints. Now, she looked completely foreign.

Fingers went to her earlobes, “Mph, not even the first holes? Tchk, we shall have to remedy that. Everyone has at least those done.”

Licking her lips, she was unable to look away from her reflection, “Won't people look at me _more_ now?” Reaching up, she touched her ears, near where Zevran's hand was still touching her lightly, “You make it sound like it's weird for someone to not have piercin’s. And where else would people put them other than their ears?”

“People who look at you now may look for a little bit, but only appreciatively, rather than with any hostility,” he said, his voice low. “As for where else people would pierce,” another chuckle, and she felt him leaning in close, his breath warm and sending a shiver through her as it brushed her ear and neck, “there are _many_ places. Lips, eyebrows, nose, cheeks, nipples, belly button...” Each place was indicated by a light touch over her face, then her chest and stomach, before his hand drifted lower, “...genitals. Anywhere can be pierced. Even your back or arms or legs. If there is skin that can be gathered, it can and has been pierced by someone before.”

Incredulous, she snorted, “Bronto shit!”

Zevran's face was split by a wide grin. “Oh yes. I myself have several, beyond what is in my ears. I used to have more,” he said, waving a hand towards his face, “but I felt I was too old to pull it off any longer, so removed them.”

Narrowing her eyes, Miolanai leaned close and saw that there were faint marks near his eyebrows and on one side of his nose, “I didn't notice any.”

“You were not looking closely enough then.” The tip of his tongue darted over his upper teeth, and she felt him take her hand, resting it on his inner thigh. “Next time you see me without pants on, take a closer look if you are curious.”

Leaning even nearer, Miolanai got so close that they were almost kissing, “If I ever get close enough to look, you probably wouldn’t want me to be there.” She clicked her teeth together, “I tend to bite.”

“Ohh, saucy then?” he remarked, seeming infinitely amused. “What a little minx you are.”

Miolanai only just realized that she had left her hand resting on his thigh when it flexed on the thick muscle in her irritation. He was aggravating, and while she was aware that she herself was just as aggravating, the Warden did not like being paired off with someone so similar. And his smile was saying it all. 

Jerking her hand from the other elf's leg, she went back to her original theme. “I'm not wearin’ this get-up. Where's my armour?”

There was a deep laugh, his head thrown back, “I had Aedur hide it.”

“What?” she asked, her voice going deadly soft.

“You are wearing protective camouflage, my dear.” Standing up, the Crow went to find his own armour, damn him to the Black City, “And will do so until we, at the very least, return to your apartments. Unless, of course, you wish to traipse through Antiva City entirely as the Maker made you?”

Spluttering, she pointed at him, “You-you-you! No! Give me your armour. I'm not goin’ through the city like this!” Jumping to her feet, she cut her hand sharply through the air. “It's night, no doubt! I'll not traipse through an unknown place like some...harlot, with some...some... _Crow_ on my arm my only protection!”

She was enraged, and without her weapons, her armour – she was utterly disarmed, almost entirely defenseless. Certainly, she could fight dirty, brawl with the best, but they had to go many blocks to return to her flat, through almost entirely unknown territory. And how would she do anything other than stand by and watch some...strange, assassin, old man, that she didn't know, try and fight when she was covered in expensive garments and jewels? No, it wouldn’t do. 

And he was standing there, his arms crossed, head cocked, weight balanced on one leg as if he were merely watching a toddler have a temper tantrum. “This is Antiva. Women are not accosted randomly on the street when they have an escort. Especially a Crow escort.” He said this far too calmly for her liking. “Your appearance will invite no extra scrutiny, you will not stick out as 'different', and that means no one will attack.” The Crow's movements were graceful as he made to stand closer, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders, “And no one would mistake you for a whore. Whores are comfortable with what they are, and every move is an enticement, an invitation. No, you do not have the capability for it. So worry not that anyone would be fool enough to approach you like that, even here.”

Torn between being offended that he thought she couldn't do something and relief that she couldn't do something, Miolanai bared her teeth up at him, “That's what they always say. They always say, 'Oh, no one would be stupid enough to attack'. Trust me, there are so many stupid people in this world that it boggles my mind. And it's _nighttime_ – that's when all the thugs’re out. Don't even try and take me for a fool.” She batted his arms hard, the smack of the back of her hands to his inner forearms satisfying when she thought she detected him flinch as she made contact with his left arm.

He had been wearing a support wrap on it the whole time. Not once had she seen it removed. Yes, the wrap had been changed, from a white one to a black one, before he put his armour on, but that meant he needed it for some reason – a wound or a sore tendon or some such. It wound around his arm from the wrist to elbow, looped smooth like an archer's support guard. It was a weakness she could exploit, if needed. 

“Yes, it is nighttime,” he acknowledged, nodding slowly. “And that means people will be out and about. Many people. Far more than there were this morning. Enough to dissuade all but the truly suicidal from open attacks.”

Snorting, her lip curled. “No, they'll be abed. Quit tryin’ to sell me that bronto shit, I didn’t fall off the back of a turnip cart yesterday dammit.”

“People do not go outdoors when it is hot, so they sleep during midday,” he said, shaking his head, his expression firm. “Antivans are more nocturnal than diurnal. But, enough of this. Sit, dinner is almost ready, by the smell of it. Perhaps you will be less confrontational with a full belly.”

Feeling like she had been slapped as if she were a naughty child, she pressed him, “My armour. Now.” 

The elf ignored her as he made a show of making himself comfortable at his low table, legs crossing as he sank elegantly on a cushion. “Sula? It smells divine. I look forward to sampling today's fare.”

The woman was smiling at him as she carried in a tray and set it down. _“Gracias, guapo.”_

XXX

Tense, Miolanai clenched her fists open and closed. The streets had lanterns out, brightly coloured cloth affairs that glowed warmly on the street. Somehow she was still in the strange, lightweight, vibrantly coloured affair that Zevran had shoved at her before dinner. Except, there had been some concessions, and the Warden had found out why the pantaloons had slit thighs. With careful maneuvering of fabric, she had decent-length daggers strapped to her thighs. And under her shirt was a belt of throwing daggers that she could reach if she put her hand into the deep neckline. At least she wasn't unarmed. The only other thing that the Crow had given in on was the choice of shoes. Ankle-high boots of molded leather, embossed in flower and vine designs, encased her feet rather than the strange little curly-toed slipper things with their funny wooden block at the heel he had only glanced at before going to something else. She supposed that she should be grateful that he hadn't even tried to get her to wear those things. 

Also, true to the Crow's word, people were out and about. Far more people than she had seen earlier, and that made her distinctly uncomfortable, all things considered. Now she found herself inspecting the people, down to the very last detail, rather than paying attention to just their body language. 

Reaching out she touched the Crow's elbow, “What’re they doing?”

“Hmm?” There was a minor hitch in his step before he glanced in the direction she was looking in. “ _Cuerpo Volante_. Flying body. It is a fighting form.”

There were two men, bare-chested and wearing loose white pants, doing what looked like an acrobatic act. That's what the Warden had taken it for, at first. But as she watched, after Zevran tugged her to the side, she could see that while each kick, flip and lunge made no contact, she realized that if such things had landed, the one on the receiving end would be hurting. Badly. As is, it mostly looked like an intense dance when coupled with the three men encircling the two combatants playing hand drums, and some droning single stringed instrument. Fascinated, she momentarily forgot her unease. 

“How’d he do that?” she asked, gasping in surprise as the shorter of the two humans went into what looked like a leap that spun him horizontally. Tattoos twisted with the motion, the lantern's light making the man look as if he were wrapped in smoke. 

“The same way you fight - with practice,” he replied, sounding vaguely amused. 

“Why’s he got tattoos all over?” She was staring openly and knew it, “I mean, you have tattoos, but aren't those Crow things?”

A long-fingered hand came to rest at the small of her back. “Look around, Mio. Everyone has them or piercings. Only foreigners do not adorn the body.”

Without thought, she did as he instructed, her gaze cutting around the participants and onlookers. One woman had gold balls laying flat around her lips, making the already plump flesh appear even more so, and there was a man who had half his face rimed with thick black lines that curved from the top of his nose, up his cheek to his temple, while a flat arrow shape was inked in his chin. Another person – whether a woman or a man, Miolanai couldn't really be sure, with the long hair and the gauzy clothing – had ear lobes that had been stretched and were held wide by open hoops made of wood. 

Shivering, the Warden felt as if she were surrounded by wild creatures or spirits from the Fade come to be stuck in the land of mortals. During the day, she had never really noticed any of these things, as she had been too busy watching the way people moved to look at their faces or clothes. 

By comparison, Zevran seemed positively normal. And her? She seemed plain.

The display came to an end and Zevran nudged her, “Put two or three silvers in the bowl.”

“Huh?” she asked, looking up at him, even as she noted musicians going about with bowls in their hands.

“Bodyguards are to watch the surroundings. Since you were the one who was being entertained and have no duty other than to be entertained, it is you who pays,” he explained, like it was the most logical thing in all of heaven and earth.

Which, actually, it was.

Fishing a few slim, silver coins out, she dropped them in the wooden bowl one of the drummers held out. She saw that he, like the others, was tattooed, but his dark skin was already so dark that the deep brown of the ink blended in, so much so that she hadn't been able to pick out individual shapes and designs. Mostly what she gathered from her brief glance was winged skeletons. 

The shaggy, dark hair bobbed along with his head. _“Muchas gracias, guapa!”_

Tensing at the word _'guapa', Miolanai knew that it wasn't an insult. She had heard plenty of people call Zevran _'guapo'_ , and he had already explained the difference between masculine and feminine words in Antivan. But she was not the sort who had ever taken compliments well, particularly from strangers, and this was a _shem_ saying it, just like the thugs early that morning. If she had been armed with real weapons she would have turned the dancer into so much meat. Yet, Zevran's hand pressing firmly on the small of her back warned her from action. She suspected he would throw her on the ground and spank her for “rash actions unfit for a lady.”_

_Reluctantly, Miolanai let the gentle pressure on her back steer her away from the group of performers and further up the street. Realizing that the route they were now taking was different from the one they took to get to his place, she cast him a distrustful glance. "This isn't the way we came," she challenged, raising an eyebrow._

_The Crow's gaze cuts towards her before moving on. “The city is large. You should learn it. Besides, if we went through the Mercede at this hour, we would be surrounded by many people.”_

_“ _This_ isn't many people?” she asked, eyes widening. They were surrounded on all sides by people. “You've gotta be jokin’.”_

_“Ah, no joke my Warden. However, if you wish, we could swing that way.” His tone was light, as he continued, “It would be no problem. Though, I must warn you that at this hour, many of those in the _Mercede_ will proposition you.”_

_Irritated, she looked at him askance, “I thought you said no one would take me for a prostitute?”_

_One of those whiskey strong chuckles caressed her ears, “Oh, they would not, but the prostitutes would take you for a potential patron, and one who is pleasing to look upon, with enough coin to afford a bodyguard, and a Crow at that.”_

_She still didn't believe him – couldn't – that is, not until she glanced down an alley and saw a clear path outward toward a large square. The veritable sea of people visible through just that tiny little gap made her head swim, and it was another two blocks before she realized that she was practically clinging to Zevran’s arm. He took it all in stride apparently, his gait smooth as he picked their path out, delicately pulling her from the path of what he would probably call an “admirer” who gave a low whistle when he saw her._

_Shuddering, Miolanai forced herself to put a small distance back between she and Zevran. “Why so many people? I...I've never _seen_ so many. Where do they all come from?”_

_“There are as many people as there are, simply because there are.” He shrugged eloquently, “This is a city, with many natives and many traders. Some are tourists as well.” A hand was waved about encompassing the street they were on. “There are artisans who operate only in the evenings, when the highest concentration of people are about. Some shops operate exclusively at night, like many of the _pintores de la lona viva_ who make each of us into living canvases, breathing pieces of artwork, for that is what we are. The Maker or Creators or whatever gods you hold dear made us, and each and every person is a work of art, waiting to be made even more glorious.” His expression was thoughtful. “Every person's body is a temple, and thus sacrosanct in its own way, and a temple is no temple at all if it is not adorned.”_

_She watched as he reached out, snagging some strange fruit from a boy going past with a basket of them, while flipping the boy a copper, “That is the weirdest...logic I ever heard.”_

_“Hmm, because you take logic as a linear thing.” A knife was flicked out, and he was slicing the fruit in half, dragging the tip down in a series of slashes that when he passed half to her, all she had to do was pull out the resulting squares from the flesh. “Logic is linear, circular, vertical and horizontal.” One of the cubes was popped into his mouth. “Do you see the people behind you?”_

_Miolanai jerked, hand going to her thigh, reaching for one of the weapons there as she began to turn, to see what threat he was speaking of. “No, which one?”_

_There was a snort, and Zevran pushed her hand away from her dagger, urging her to try the fruit he had given her. “No. Do not look, there is no danger. What I mean to say is, when you are facing forward, do you see the people behind you?”_

_Her face twisted incredulously. “‘Course not! I'm lookin’ straight ahead!”_

_“Ah, so if you do not see them, does that mean they are not there?” Of course she nodded, but he didn't seem to care, for all he did was continue. “You only look forward, you do not look around, you do not look up, nor down, nor to the left nor right, you do not look behind or around corners. You act as though everything before you is the only thing real. It is not. You remind me of a man I met once from the barbarous areas of your country, the ah...what was it? Ah yes, the Korcari Wilds. A Chasind?”_

_“Yeah, Chasind, they're...swamp and mountain folk who live in the south.” Sourly, Miolanai thought of Morrigan. “I wouldn't call them barbarians though. They've a code of ethics that they abide by, and they don't believe in the Maker – just because they're different doesn't make them barbarians.”_

_She had always known the Chasind witch had held her secrets to her breast, not having revealed them until the night at Redcliffe. Miolanai had understood, she had known that Morrigan had been afraid to tell her of her true reasons for being with them. They had been friends, close as sisters should be. Morrigan had reminded her of a version of Shianni, if she had grown up without love or friendship. If only the witch had told her sooner, had waited and not fled at Alistair's rejection of the ritual... But no, Morrigan had fled after Miolanai had told her that Alistair refused to go through the ritual, probably seeing it as utter rejection of all she was, as confirmation of all her hidden fears about Miolanai and the party, even including Alistair._

_“Mmn, so you are capable of having an open mind,” he remarked, nodding to himself and finishing off his fruit. “Simply put, he could not understand that there are many more ways of thinking, many more angles to thought and logic, than what he had been raised with.”_

_“What happened to him?” she asked, keeping her focus locked on the elf. She could no longer deal with all the noise and bustle and people flowing around her. If she tried to look around, she would go mad, she would attack, she would panic. The last time she had been surrounded by this much noise, this much stimuli, had been in Denerim, the darkspawn horde having descended on the city, burning and destroying all in its path. No, she could only pay attention to the Crow, else she'd begin to scream._

_A shrug, and he tossed the rind of his fruit to the street, near a gutter. “He died in all the ways that count.” He glanced at her, and she wasn't sure, but she felt like he was measuring her, “Eat your mango. Like many things, if only you try it, you will like it.”_

_Shuddering, she did as he said. Reluctantly. Being around Zevran today had been strange; he kept prodding her with words and actions like he was trying to make her think about everything, like he was teaching her, but if this was being taught something, then it was the strangest method of instruction she had ever come across. _I wonder how he and Wynne would get along?_ She took in his profile from the corner of her eye. _Probably not that well. He would needle her ceaselessly, and she would probably preach at him._ Just like Wynne had preached at her. Finally biting into her second piece of mango, Miolanai tasted it. It was rich and thick and honey sweet. _

_She grunted her surprise. “Mph! S'good,” she said, mumbling around another piece that she shoved into her mouth._

_Beside her the Crow chuckled, “Ah, new things can be good.” His hand went to rest at the small of her back again, “Would you like to go on a small adventure?”_

_“Mmph,” she muttered, devouring her half mango, and squinted one eye up at him. “Mebbe?”_

_“ _Pintores vida_. There is an artist I know whose shop we are approaching,” he said, pointing with his chin in the general direction they were already heading. “She is one of the finest and could do your ears. Come now, at least the first holes, yes?”_

_Blinking rapidly, she tried to backpedal, “Um...I don't think I want dangly things in my ears. Too easy to yank out in a fight.”_

_“Ah, but that is only if you get 'dangly' ones,” he said, eyebrows bouncing up and down at her, his expression teasing. “Besides, yanking dangly things is rude in a fight. Unless it is naked, bare handed, with nothing but the sweat of bodies involved. Then grabbing dangly things is more than allowed – it is encouraged!”_

_She laughed at the image, “I don't think grabbin’ is a good thing to do! Not in that situation. Might hurt.”_

_“Ah, but it is a pain that is worth it,” he replied, and with that, Miolanai realized they were stopping at a door painted a vibrant red._

_Before she could protest, he was opening the door and ushering her in. The light was bright, lamps reflecting off of small mirrors that intensified the illumination of a single lamp five-fold. Inside were a few small cushions scattered amongst larger ones and large booklets that were open displaying ink drawings of fantastical things, from women with fish tails in place of legs to dragons and serpents. Even though she backed up a step, Miolanai was stopped by the solid wall that was Zevran behind her, who gave her a gentle push towards one of the cushions and dragged a book near her._

_He flipped through a few pages, before pointing to one. “Ah, there – that is something I drew for her. Zamitie has been doing this for longer than your span of years and mine combined. It is strange that she cannot draw upon paper, but upon flesh she is a magician that knows no bounds.”_

_“Did she do any of your work?” she asked, examining the page that was covered in flowers and flames that twisted in what looked like some sort of runic text. She had to admit it was beautiful, and so found herself flipping through the booklet and spent a few minutes tracing the outlines of the ones that had no easily described shapes. “And how much did it hurt?”_

_Zevran stretched out, his legs crossing at the ankles. “Most of it, yes. Much of her business is for the Free Blades though. She rarely accepts Guild members – I know of only one other – not for all the gold they could offer, nor the threats. She is an artist, Zamitie is, and as tricky to work with as any. If she does not like your canvas, she will not deign to look at you, but her piercing, that is open to anyone with the coin.”_

_“Must make enough to eat.” A sultry and sardonic voice, heavily accented Common rolling from her tongue sounded from nearby. “ _Gato,_ you are here. I had not expected you to return during business hours, after the last Work.”_

_The woman was tall, and age had been kind, for she was handsome, red hair coiled atop her head in a topknot with some twisted ropes fastened by charms and bells, the rest hanging down in sheets and braids. That was not to say that she did not wear her age at all, for she did. It hung like a cloak of regal bearing, announcing to all and sundry that this was a woman who knew herself and the world. Lines were on her face at eyes and mouth and forehead, but they had not diminished her beauty. A strong jaw, voluptuous lips and large eyes of an indeterminate slate that may be green or very dark grey-blue gazed out at the world, judging it. She was a part of the world and apart from time._

_He gestured dismissively, “It is not I who is here for your skill, but the Warden.”_

_“The Warden? As in a Grey Warden?” Those piercing eyes swept over Miolanai, who instinctively straightened under the scrutiny, “I thought I knew all the Wardens in Antiva. You are new.” A waved hand bid her to stand to be looked over, “And you are a woman. The Wardens know not to send female recruits here unless it is an Antivan native. Hmph.” A hand came out to grasp Miolanai's chin, tilting her head back to peer directly into her eyes, “Ah. I see. Come then.”_

__What does she see?_ Startled, but quiescent, Miolanai trailed after the _shemlen_. _

_She detected no hint of threat and, curiously, she felt safe in this parlor. It wasn't until she recognized some of the runes etched into the lintel of the door that led to the back room that she understood – magic. Was this Zamitie an apostate? From the looks of the back room, it was a possibility. There was a cot – more table than cot really – and a chair, as well as equipment of unknown usage, but it was the glyphs inlaid with marble around the cot and chair that glowed, flaring up whitely as they stepped over the perimeter, that spoke volumes, changing the ‘possibility’ to ‘certainty’._

_Zamitie set about washing her hands and gathering up vials, when Zevran interrupted, leaning at the doorway. “Her ears, they need to be pierced.”_

_“I can see that, _gato_ , but her canvas is empty. It needs to be healed,” she said, brusque in the way someone who knew their work could be when an outsider was trying to tell them what to do. “There is much she needs. The ears can come later.”_

_Clearing her throat, Miolanai spoke up, “I...don't think I want any um...ink done.”_

_The woman stilled, then cast her a hard look, “What you want, my dear, is not what you need.” She heaved a sigh, “But perhaps the canvas is not ready. When you are, return. I shall Work my arts upon you then. Until that time, come _mija_ , sit,” she directed, snapping fingers, and a sharp gesture caused the glyph to flare into the luminescence of rainbows before settling down. _

_“Just my ears, right?” she asked, not quite ready to sit down._

_“ _Mija_ , I know my trade, now be seated, please,” she said, with a waved hand. “Since it is your first time, close your eyes. It will make my job easier. Your Crow is there, and he is one of few who may cross my glyph,” she said, obviously noting her uneasy glance at Zevran, “as he is my finest apprentice, and he will rescue you if anything untoward were to happen.”_

_Clenching her hands into fists, the Warden allowed the woman to lay her back with firm hands. The bitter sharp tang of some paste was swabbed over her ears, shockingly cool, and Miolanai twitched. Another set of hands came to rest on her – warm, almost hot – one curling around her wrist, the other laying on her shoulder. That spicy, honey musk that the Crow wore filled her senses, and for some reason that comforted her. There were no words, but there was something cold pinching her left ear. Breathing slow and deep, the elf focused on the smell of incense and whatever the oil was that Zevran wore, her mouth closed but not tightly. It was on her next exhale that something sharp slid through her lobe, cold at first then burning. Sucking in a harsh breath, she was about to yelp, but a low, soothing hum along with fingers brushing over her forehead and temples eased the pain away. By the time Miolanai had taken five breaths and released them, there had been five more of those cold-to-hot slips in her ear._

_“Shall I put the hoops in?” It was as if his voice came from a distance, and Miolanai felt that if she had been sitting or standing she would have swayed. Nonetheless, it seemed as though she did, even lying down._

_“ _Si, gato_ ; I assume you have an idea of what she should wear?” There was some motion that almost tempted her to open her eyes, however she wasn't in pain, but felt some strange floating sensation. _

_With a soft grunt, the warm hands left her, and there was clinking, “An idea, yes. Do you think you could perhaps heal the wounds afterward?”_

_More of that bitter tang scented paste was smeared on her, this time on the opposite ear, “You know my thoughts on that practice, _gato_ , but,” cinnamon, clove and nutmeg flavoured breath brushed over the Warden's face. “This one would not understand such a thing yet.”_

_Under her lids, her eyes were twitching, almost rolling back. There was something freeing rushing through her blood, almost a release that came after another needle pierced her flesh. Wetness rolled down the her ear to be wiped away gently, the cloyingly sweet scent of coppery blood mixing with the oils Zevran wore, the herbal paste, and Zamitie's own hot perfume. It was pleasant in a strange way. Sighing as the world tilted this way and that, hands helped her sit back up once everything was finished._

_“Ohh...” she mumbled, blinking slowly as more warmth seeped through her, the heat of palms being held near her ears. “What....?”_

_Zamitie's hands fell away. “It is done, _mija_.”_

_Miolanai was still dazed by the time they got back to her apartment. Zevran had to guide her up the stairs and into the apartment, she was aware of that much. However, the trip back was a strange, dizzying, fascinating thing, where every flash of light off of metal or one particular show of fire-breathers, drew her attention. Nothing seemed quite real._

_A firm grip on her shoulders made her sit down on one of the couches, “So, what did you think of our adventure, Warden?”_

_Turning her eyes on him, she had to make them focus, “Can we go again?”_

_This garnered a deep laugh, “Truly? You wish to return for more? Twelve holes were put into you this evening, and you are ready for more? Tchk, are you sure you are not Antivan?”_

_Shaking her head, Miolanai began tugging off her little boots, more like high-ankled slippers. Boots were supposed to be practical, not these thin little things. However, she did have to admit they were pretty, if just a little uncomfortable. Their soles were too thin, and every step she had taken in them made her feet compensate by gripping the ground differently than she was used to._

_“Umph, my feet _hurt_ ,” she complained, moaning and tossing the horrid little things as far from her as she could manage._

_“Ah, then allow me.” The Crow plunked down beside her, grabbing her foot before she could stop him, and then she didn't want to stop him, as he dug his thumbs into her arch. The other elf hunched over the foot in his lap, the heat from his hands seeping through her skin as he worked at her. “Mmm, you know, feet – they are so often overlooked.”_

_Yawning a little, Miolanai stretched her toes and wiggled them at him, “Because feet’re nasty.” She leaned down just enough so she could grab one of his thick ankles and poked at his arch. “See? Nasty. People walk around on their feet in shoes and boots and those funky strappy sandals or even barefoot, all over the place, in shoes that are too small or too big or none at all, so dirt gets ground in, or sweat, or things that smell bad.” The Crow and she had changed positions enough so that he could continue rubbing her foot, and she could continue poking his. “Feet are disgustin’. Even yours.”_

_Except his weren't disgusting exactly. There were scars on the underside, thin little weals of skin, and she looked up from them to Zevran and back down again. Here was some of the proof of what it had taken for him to get where he was. Certainly there was some callus, and the second to the last toe of his right foot was bent the wrong way, as well as clipped short, the last joint of it having been clearly amputated. The long toes were strong, as demonstrated by him locking them around her fingers._

_“Mmm, yes, but feet – how would we get anywhere without them?” he asked as he tugged on one of her toes. “If they are not taken care of, what shall we do? Scoot along on knees and hands?”_

_Attempting to break the hold he had on her fingers without breaking his toes in the process, she replied, “No. But I'm sure you have a suggestion, O Wise Man of the City!” Still fighting his grip, she muttered to herself, “More like wise-ass of the city.”_

_“Well, for starters, you could begin taking care of your skin, and your feet, _and_ your hair,” honey-gold eyes peered at her._

_“You make me sound like I'm a stupid little kid, you know that right?” she growled at him, too tired to be properly aggravated, and too high off of the ear piercing to bother caring enough that she was too tired to be more than only passably irritable._

_There was a soft sigh, and he was reaching for her other foot. “You are right. I apologize. You are not a stupid little child, but a foreigner who is seeking to live in another country, however briefly. It is my job to guide you, Miolanai, and you make it most difficult. Here we are. You have been in Antiva not more than two days, and already you have butted up against some of the issues you will have to tackle.” Zevran's touch was firm, forcing her to look at him. “Have a care – day to day life is a battle that cannot be won by simply bashing at things. You act as though you are a warrior who can pick locks and use stealth, not like a rogue. Rogues are survivors in the settings you will find yourself in. Attack from the sides, from behind, above – all directions are open to you. Your mind is the one weapon that can never be taken from you. So long as you have your mind, you are far from unarmed. Your looks, your body, your mannerisms, these too are weapons. Use them. Do not neglect them. Do not waste a single item in your arsenal. I cannot teach you those things. I can try, I can cajole and pester and show you, but ultimately you are the one who decides if you use them or not. Not I.”_

_She stared at him, “Why do you have to make sense?”_

_Pulling away from him, the Warden left him before he could speak. Her looks as a weapon, yes, she had used that before. She had been so often judged nonthreatening because of her breasts and ears. It had made her feel cheap to use her “charms” that way, no matter that it had worked. Entering her room, Miolanai closed the door firmly – not slamming it, just firmly enough to give it a note of finality – and pressed her back to it. Being a woman, and worse, being an _elven_ woman, had made her a target and given her tools to fight with, but at what cost? No, no she would much rather simply smash through obstacles than rely on things that were more curse than tool._

_She never asked to have white hair that was startling against her peach coloured skin, with these strange green eyes. No, she had never asked to have breasts and a narrow waist and full hips, nor pointed ears that made her less than dirt amongst the world at large. There was a reason she didn't take care of those things – her skin, her hair, her face. To be a pretty elf – to be a pretty _female_ elf – in Ferelden earned nothing but pain. Even ones who weren't so pretty, like Shianni, with her ears that stuck out from her head comically and her fish-lipped mouth, were still targets. Nothing more than animals, in the eyes of the nobility. Being genderless was all that protected Miolanai through the Blight and after it. _

_What Zevran was asking of her was too much. She couldn't do it, and that was a bitter pill because when she sat or stood next to him, she felt plain and ugly. For the first time, Miolanai didn't really want that, except she knew no other way to be anymore._


	6. Chapter 6

XXX  
Guild-ed 6  
XXX

Zevran woke in the humid night to the sound of footsteps coming from the living room. Slipping on a pair of silk pants, he padded around the end of the screen that separated his room from the common area to see Miolanai restlessly striding back and forth, scrubbing a hand through her hair, a half-agonized expression on her face and dark circles under her eyes. The young woman was stooped as though she were bearing the weight of centuries on her deceptively narrow shoulders. 

“Warden,” he said, keeping his tone soft and measured, “is there aught I can do for you?”

He must not have made enough noise before speaking, for Miolanai whirled, falling into a fighting stance. Her eyes were wild, and Zevran made himself still but for holding his hands up, placatingly. The expression on her face was almost frightening, like she had forgotten everything but how to kill. Beyond that, there was no warning. One moment it seemed as though she were about to calm down, but then, so fast he hadn’t been expecting it, he found himself slammed to the floor. There was an arm around his throat, a knee in the small of his back, and he was being yanked backwards. The sheer amount of force in the Warden’s grip was almost enough to break his back, if he hadn’t been so flexible. Hissing in pain, unable to do more than try to roll onto his side, the Crow fought every instinct and made himself go limp.

Ragged breathing filled his ears, a panting that was guttural and barely held any hint of humanity. Black spots began to swim in his vision, but he continued to make himself remain limp. Any movement would trigger more violence, the risk of sending the Warden too deep into memory far too great for him to dare it. Right now she was holding steady, as if she were trying to remember where she was and when she was. Yes, if it were someone else, Zevran would have reached back and gouged their eyes out, or done a reverse strike to their trachea, but those were not things he could do to her. Punch, hit, kick – certainly. But if he harmed the Warden, let alone killed her, he would wish that he had simply lain back and let her kill him herself, right here, right now.

Then suddenly the pressure and the weight was gone, as well as the sound of harsh breathing. Cautiously, the Crow rolled onto his stomach, pushing himself off the floor, ready to dodge – even dive out the window in the Warden’s room – but he saw Miolanai standing well away from him, and away from the front door, clearly providing him with an escape route, and on purpose, at that.

There was an air of tattered calm hanging around her shoulders, and her hands were gripping her elbows tightly as she croaked, “Sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, my Warden,” he tried to assure her, refraining from rubbing his neck or massaging his back. “What has happened was beyond your control, Miolanai,” he said, making himself use her name, enunciating it slowly for her, hoping to cut through any remaining fog. “We each have memories that we fall into, sometimes.”

Muscles jumped around her jaw, and even in the too-large leggings and baggy shirt, he could detect all of them dancing around under her skin. “Yeah, maybe, but I can’t afford to lose control, not when there’s others around.” The look she turned on him was hard and blank, “They tend to get hurt.”

Moving slowly towards the nearest couch, Zevran sat down, resting his forearms on the tops of his spread knees, “And what of you? Do you not get hurt as well?”

“Sure,” she replied offhandedly, shrugging, but still stiff as a board.

And clearly staying well away from him.

“When you have these losses of full awareness, if you get hurt, how do you react?” he asked, resisting the urge to wave her to come sit beside him.

Her lips twitched, and she looked away. “Worse. Which is stupid, because they were only tryin’ to defend themselves.” Before he could respond, her eyes rolled towards him, but not her face, pinning him just as strongly with her gaze as she had with her strength. “You didn’t. Why?”

Taking a deep breath, Zevran scooted down the couch, patting it. “Come, sit, please. It will take some...explaining.”

There was a goodly amount of hesitation before the Warden went to the other couch and made herself into some facsimile of comfortable. “S’okay, I’m not gonna fall asleep again for a long while. I got time.”

Refusing to be put off, he got up and sat beside the elven woman, knowing that right now what she needed most was connection. Reaching out, he laid a hand on her wrist, feeling the bones under her skin, the ropey tendons that bulged and shifted slowly in response to the casual touch. It was normal, he supposed, to be so skittish, but at the same time, remaining separate only made these illnesses of the spirit that much worse.

“I have a certain way with people,” he began, picking a route to give a satisfactory explanation. “It is rare indeed that I never obtain my objective. In fact, I have only failed twice in my duties as a Crow. Tell me, how much do you know of our training?”

“Just what you’ve told me,” her small shrug was probably made more to dislodge his gentle grip than to be an expression.

Sighing, he turned so he was facing her more, one leg tucked under his knee on the cushion, the other cocked and not quite resting on the floor. “It is time consuming. Buying slaves costs money. Feeding and housing them also costs money, and then educating them, more money. Training them in the arts and in weapons, even more money.” Thinking for a moment, he hazarded a guess, “To train a Crow, from purchase to their first job, it...would easily cost forty sovereigns, and the amount of money it takes for one to live here in Antiva is very low. For Antivans at least. There is food, clothing, weapons, healing, supplies for poisons, for artwork. Our training is not meant to kill, but to make us into killers. Most of us make it through our training and at least gain the Guild enough profit to justify our purchase and upkeep. But,” he continued, watching her expression intently, “even those of us who do make it and are taken on as personal apprentices to older, more established Crows, sometimes...buckle under the pressure.”

“You mean go crazy.” She said the last word with a very...telling absence of inflection, as if what she suffered were some form of insanity, rather than a wound that could be healed and treated.

“Not exactly crazy, no,” he countered, shaking his head firmly. “Wild, wounded, broken, listless, ‘twitchy’, easily frightened or roused to anger. Sometimes this happens to those of us who have been in a long time. Few Crows make it much past thirty. Either we irritate a superior, a younger Crow takes us out, a contract goes awry, or we simply...give up and make ourselves into easy targets. But, by then we have paid the Guild back ten-fold, easily, for every single thing we have gained. Room, board, all of it. Those of us who do last past then, we become Crow Masters – not just Master Crows – and I have been in the Guild for more than fifty ears.”

Miolanai thought that over, her head tilting to the side, dainty silver hoops flashing in her white hair. “You haven’t cracked. Why?”

“I have,” he admitted. “We all do, eventually. It is whether we pick ourselves back up or not, regain some will of our own. How we react to things, that is our only true freedom and choice in this world.” He took both her hands in his, “Sentiment in the younger members is strongly discouraged. The Guild _must_ come first. Once you have made it to about thirty, you can undertake your Master level tests. They are based on loyalty to the Crows, knowledge of the body and its workings, and so on. It is a series of trials. Once you pass those, though, you are free to make a more individualized life for yourself – a home, family, things of this nature, even a small business. The best baker I know is a Master Crow. She has been in business for five years now and has even taken a husband. Splendid little biscuits she makes, with cardamom and nutmeg.” Pulling himself back on track, Zevran continued, “I attained my Master levels young – very young, younger than you. Because of this, I was cocky and foolish, but even so, even then, I had this way with others.” 

Here he stopped, wishing for a drink; some _ron miel_ would do the trick, possibly the entire bottle. However, getting drunk would not make his point easier to come to, and if he was to be able to forge a connection to the Warden, and do his job properly, he would have to reveal these things at some point. Best to do it now, as there was this neat opportunity provided, and not waste such a chance.

“I never take more than two apprentices at a time. Once, I had three, however that was too much,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “So, what I am saying, my dear, is if a Crow buckles and cracks, they make no profit for the Guild. That is why when you pass your Master’s levels, you may make a life so you have something to come home to, as it were, something to call your own. Not all of us make it that far, but that is not what the Guild wants. They want you productive as long as possible. This is a business after all.”

“So you take...apprentices, but what has that got to do with this...manner you speak of?” Finally mirroring his pose on the couch, she pulled one of her hands away to drape it over the sofa’s back cushions.

Rubbing his jaw, eyes closed, he shook his head, “It has everything to do with it. All of my apprentices were those who were deemed nearly unsalvageable, but the Guild thought them too good to simply toss away and that any possibility to rehabilitate them was to be taken, within reason. This is what I do. I support them and guide them, help them however I can to regain some kind of balance.” A small chuckle came from his throat, the taste of it bitter, “Even before I, myself, fell and shattered, I was doing this. Even if I did not take so many contracts, was not given so many assignments, I would still have recouped the Guild’s costs in training me a hundred times over.” 

“How’d you break?” the question that he was expecting still made him feel a little ill.

“One of my apprentices, an...elven lass.” He stopped abruptly, trying not to remember how Rinna had looked at the last and only think on what she had been like before he broke her, and himself.

Her voice was soft, and he found his hands squeezed in sympathy. “Oh.”

“Rinna was her name, and she made me feel alive,” he sighed it out, dribbling each word with the emotions he generally only pretended at. “But, my other apprentice – my _first_ apprentice, one who never went back to his own cell, one who stayed on, helped me train others, worked with me, was my...friend, sometimes my lover. Taliesin did not like this, but I was unable to see his bitterness over her presence in my life.” 

“I can guess the rest.” Miolanai’s voice was gentle, “You don’t have to go on, I can figure out the endin’.”

Opening his eyes, Zevran grunted in surprise; the person across from him was a woman in this moment. Not a Warden or a soldier, simply a person, for she was as unguarded as he had ever seen her. This was the woman she would have been, had there been no Blight, had there been no Vaughn. 

He smiled tightly at her, “Ah, you can guess, but you will not understand completely unless I tell you. It is the way of these things.” Steeling himself, he continued, “Taliesin came to me with proof that Rinna had betrayed us and the Guild. I consented to his demand to put her down. Like a dog. So, together we did the deed. It was not my hand that did it, but his, a minor distinction that does not leave me clean.”

“She...she betrayed you?” Miolanai asked, shocked.

“No, and that is why it was so cruel, for as she was dying, even then, she professed that she loved me, and I laughed at her for it,” he admitted, noting the way Miolanai’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “It was terrible of me to have done so. The worst crime? She had been framed, and by Taliesin, no less.”

The Warden straightened, holding his hands tightly, squeezing, “What did you do?” 

“The lot of a slave does not leave one much room for justice, and the life of a Crow leaves you less, no matter your skill, and so, I wished to die.” He shrugged it away, “But then I gained a moment of clarity, my death would have been fruitless. It would have done nothing for Rinna, nothing for justice, so I made my own justice. There was a contract that came for two Warden recruits in Ferelden. I convinced Taliesin that he was not only capable of doing this contract, but that it would make him renowned amongst our order.”

“Two...Wardens?” She blinked a few times, thinking. “I killed him, you know. I wanted to question him, but he didn’t gimme a chance. I woulda spared him, if he had just...given me that choice, but he didn’t. Now I’m glad he hadn’t.”

“As am I, even though he was my friend, my student.” Zevran tried not to ask if his death had been hard or not. He didn’t want to know, not really. “That left me alive, though, and at a loss. What to do with my life? I could give up, but again, this would solve nothing. And me living and continuing to feel the ache of loss, that was a just punishment for myself, I wagered. Eventually, I found a balance in my life once more, threw myself into my work, into my other apprentices, my projects, my art, all of it. It distracted me, gave me things to focus on until the there was nothing but the old scars left to bother me.”

Fingers dug into his hands once more, like she was searching for mended bones, but healers could do much, and he was a valuable commodity. She would find little or no evidence of what he had gone through, “That’s what I’m tryin’ to do, too.”

“I know,” he acknowledged. “But all of us have memories that pull at us, each must deal with them the best they can. Some have violent reactions. Many of us do, many of my apprentices did. Violence does not disturb me, and my wounds were not of that variety, so there is little risk of me reacting the way you did to your own demons. Yet, this means I do have some experience in dealing with such instances as this evening. Fighting you would have only escalated the situation, and unless I was willing to kill you, there was nothing I could do other than wait it out.”

“Oh...I...s’ppose that makes sense,” she said, pulling her hands from his lax grasp and tucking them into her lap. 

They stared at each other for a few minutes, before Zevran turned again, putting his feet up on the small table. Holding his arm out, he invited her to seek comfort in his presence. “Neither of us will sleep tonight, but that does not mean we cannot have company while we wait for dawn.”

XXX

Somehow, with minimal fuss, Zevran convinced the Warden to wear more of the same clothes that had been purchased for her yesterday. Having Aedur in his employ was definitely beneficial, for the youth was fleet of foot and could get packages almost anywhere in Antiva City within a day, for the most part. This meant that Miolanai had something approaching a functioning wardrobe to make use of, adding that to the two trunks that Ignacio had had delivered during the time that he and the elven woman were at his own apartment sparring and sleeping. He had refrained from looking in the trunks because he had some inkling as to the contents – weapons and armour, and probably not a bit of the personality and warmth that the Warden was actually capable of.

Zevran wove through the crowds, a gentle hand on Miolanai's lower back guiding her and reassuring her as they made their way through the crush, aware that she was on edge, as she was not in her dually protective encasing. He could provide at least some anchor for her. She was just a little twitchy today, occasionally shifting her shoulders like she expected to feel the weight of her armour on them. It was a habit that made her gait strange, no matter that she was dressed in silk and linen. The Warden looked like a lovely woman though. 

So long as she wasn’t moving.

At all.

Or opening her mouth.

"Where’re we going?" she finally asked, as they passed the turning for the _Plaza de Mercede_. “Another adventure to see Zamitie?” she asked, sounding surprisingly hopeful.

"I thought, perhaps, before we continue, I could show you where some of the fruit in my pantry comes from. I find myself to be out of figs," he replied, guiding her into the stone archway that guarded the entrance to one of the orphan gardens that dotted the city. 

A few children were playing on the grounds being overseen by a young man who clearly had only recently learned to shave, as the youth had a dusting of shadowy peach fuzz on his cheeks. He glanced up from drawing in the dirt, a smile coming over his face, and grabbed two small baskets that were woven from undyed palm and sugarcane, before skipping up to them.

“ _Caballero Cuervo!_ Have not seen you in a while,” he exclaimed, holding out the baskets. “Misha thought something may have happened to you. Now I can collect on the bet.”

“Oh? It wounds me that she thought I would be laid low,” Zevran replied with a smile. He took the baskets and passed one to the Warden beside him. Fishing out a few coppers, he deposited them into the orphan’s hand. “But I am happy that she had such concern for me. So,” he continued conspiratorially, giving the boy a sly wink, “make sure you collect on that wager. Kisses from girls like Misha are not so easy to come by.”

The young man blushed under his coffee coloured skin, his Rivani heritage clear. “I will take that advice to heart, _Señor_.”

Laughing, Zevran called over his shoulder, pulling Miolanai along, “See that you do!”

Miolanai’s head was craning this way and that, taking in the trees and bushes. Most everything about was bearing fruit, some ripe, some not quite in season. He eyed one of the citrus trees then decided against it; climbing he could do, but he had a feeling that the Warden would seek to do the same, and in her current garb, she would wind up ripping it all. 

“So, you pick your own fruit?” she asked, looking at him in open curiosity. “But we passed a buncha fruit carts....”

Waving a hand at the garden, he shook his head. “This is an orphan garden. A _Niños Jardín_. They are maintained by the children who reside in the orphanages not run by the Chantry. Originally, these were put in place to provide food during siege. Four, five hundred years ago, Antiva was used to having to handle more...vociferous incursions than we do today.” Smiling as he realized that her ears were pricking up, eager to hear more – and Zevran was well aware of his skill as an instructor – he warmed to his subject. “In the Steel and Storm Ages we had to deal with the Qun’ari, but before that, and afterwards, there were darkspawn, and before _that_ the Imperium.”

“But everyone knows Antivans can’t fight,” she replied, lips pursing.

Smirking, Zevran reached up to the low hanging branches of the nearest fig tree. “It is not that we cannot my dear, it is that we choose not to. We find that keeping a delicate balance provides us with much wealth, not that we actually need it. Our land is rich with resources – spices, animals, plants, people and knowledge.”

“Well if it’s so great, why hasn’t anyone sought to pluck such a fine gem?” Miolanai asked as she held out one of the baskets for him to deposit the fruit into. “I mean, other than the Crows, what’s there to keep war from the borders? That just makes no sense. If the land is so rich, most anyone in power would figure it worth the risk.”

“And disrupt trade? Oh-ho, you forget, Antiva is the source for much of Thedas’ spices, for the best honey, wine, sugar, and many other luxuries. People in power tend to like their little luxuries, and those who serve those in power are even more attached, and so the effect trickles down,” he explained. He dropped several more figs into the basket, and they made tiny little rumbling thumps. “Until there is a point where everyone below would rebel at the thought of losing their treats, those things they look forward to, and ‘simply cannot live without!’” He said the last with extravagant drama, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead, faking a swoon.

She poked at some of the fruit and shrugged, “Yeah, whatever. I could take over this place with a few old grannies armed with broomsticks.”

“Ah, and then the Guild would stop you,” he pointed out. “And then there would be no more take-over. That is, if someone from your own country did not stop you. Again, someone like oh...Anora values her pretty silks. And Eamon? He has a _particular_ fondness for Antivan brandy made from pomegranates. I can name off every single arl and major merchant of Ferelden and their vices, all of which Antiva fills rather admirably. For a nice price, I may add. We take your gold, though we have no need of it. We are the center of _all_ trade, my dear Warden. So long as one country or another has no clear control over us, then they refuse to threaten their pleasures with something that can be gained through the blood, sweat and tears of those below them.”

“But, there’s a king, or...at least I thought there was a king,” she argued, squinting in thought.

“Mmn, yes, His Majesty Evarrent, I think. Not that it is of much import, no one listens to him, anyway,” he said, waving off the subject. “No, he knows how to use the Guild and how to play the fool. All monarchs of Antiva – those who make it that far – know these tricks. They pick and choose their battles. For instance...” Zevran plucked yet another fig, this time cutting it open. “...The _Jardines_ are funded and supported by the king. It is not a hidden fact, but one few think of. Children without families can make enough coin to eat, and the grounds are kept well. For the price of a few bits, people come and can pick whatever they choose. Though many use the fruit carts that are so prevalent, those who are cost-conscious, or lovers, come here. The Maker provides for those who look, and those who invest in all around them. Such is the way things are, yes?”

He watched as she sighed, a dark look passing over her features, “Not everywhere. Few communities are so close knit in Ferelden.”

He made a sound of disgust, “No wonder you left. I know I would be miserable there. It sounds as though it is not a fit place for anyone. Tell me, if you tripped in the street what would happen?”

“Not much, I’d pick myself up,” she said, accepting the half fig he held out, and nibbling it.

“Hmph, here? You would have no fewer than two people helping you get back up and regather your goods if you had dropped any,” Zevran said, shaking his head. “I cannot imagine living in a place where people do not smile, do not eat together and share food. Antiva is dangerous, just as any place is, but we still take care of our own. And these dangers? They are easily avoided with the use of a little wit, yes?” 

“You make this place sound like the Maker’s Garden, all peaceful and unspoiled,” she scoffed, even as she shoved the rest of the fig into her mouth. Speaking around the fruit, she shook her head. “No, I don’t buy it. A country with slavery, with Crows, with the poor and the rich side by side? No. There’s horror here, there is pain and misery. Don’t pretend that there ain’t.”

Squatting in the shade, Zevran leaned against the tree’s base, “Have I attempted to say that there is not? As long as there are people, there will be misery, there will be pain and death, but that goes hand-in-hand with laughter and kisses and joy. You cannot have the night without the day. You cannot have heat without the cold. There are two sides, or more, to everything.”

“I’m not sayin’ that.” Setting the baskets down the Warden paced, her slim legs moving in a fast, but long stride, “I’m saying that this place you talk ‘bout with such shining detail, it’s a mask. It hides the grotesque...”

He interrupted her, “It does not hide it, we embrace it. Hiding it would be a lie and do no justice to the good that can be done.”

Miolanai gave sharp bark of laughter. “Good? You? You speak to me of _good_? You’re a murderer. You probably have enough blood on your hands to fill a river.”

“I do.” He acknowledged that fact easily. “But I am not a murderer. A killer and an assassin, certainly, but a murderer? No. I think not. A murder is committed from emotion, from some personal issue with another individual. I have no issue with those I kill, no quarrel at all. I merely serve as a high priced executioner. There is no emotion invested in what I do. I take pride in my skills, in my precision, and I treat my profession with respect. It is not a game, it is not something I do for fun nor to glory in the power over life and death. I am a servant of society and no less important for that than the baker or the Warden or the Templar or the wine maker or the farmer.” 

Miolanai stopped her pacing suddenly, crossing her arms over her chest, “But you still think you’re a good person.”

“How many people have you killed with inaction or reaction, Miolanai?” he asked softly, rather than answer directly. “How many individuals could you save, but did not, as you felt that they were not as important as the eventual culmination of your goal to defeat the Blight? Two Wardens, recruits no less, against daunting odds. Impossible odds, truly. Two young people so wet behind the ears that they dripped, so green that anyone could smell the sap coming off of them. If you had been more experienced, more focused – could you have saved more people? More innocents?”

Her green eyes went far away. “There ain’t no such thing as innocence. We all do our share of murdering, Zevran. I did what I had to do, even when I didn’t wanna. Maybe I coulda walked away, and then had to deal with the deaths of so many more than those who died anyway. Yeah, I may’ve killed people, and not just darkspawn. I may’ve let good men and women and children die because I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t smart enough, or experienced enough. But...there was no one else.” The Warden didn’t move for a long time, and he sat there watching her until she spoke again. “I had to choose between savin’ one person right now, or ten people tomorrow. Constantly, I had to weigh the cost of every single thing I did. Every single thing _we_ did. We were only two Wardens against a horde, no matter that we had support. In the end, only a Warden can kill an Archdemon. Because of a stupid curse in the blood, we’re the only ones who can, and because of that, I couldn’t risk dyin’, when there were no other Wardens ‘round to take the Archdemon down. What else could I do? What else? Tell me that, because I don’t know the answer.”

Tugging on one of his earrings, the Crow chewed his lip thoughtfully. “If you are asking if you were wrong or if you were right, I cannot answer you. You did what you thought you could.”

“Yeah, well, for some? It wasn’t enough.” Miolanai’s shoulders slumped, and again, she aged two decades in two seconds. “Unlike you, I am a murderer, and I’m hailed a hero for it.”

XXX

Miolanai lay across a pile of cushions in Zevran’s sitting area staring at the ceiling, silent in her introspection, as she had been for much of the way back from the garden. Emi curled next to her, his big head on her arm, and purred, hoping, no doubt, to comfort her. Absently, her hand slowly stroked through his fur. The feline was definitely good for this sort of thing. How often had the cat been there for him, over the years? 

Feeling peckish, Zevran stood in the kitchen, making tea and cutting up fruit onto a plate, adding it to an assortment of cheeses and other savory fare. Their breakfast had been typically light as Antivan breakfasts were, but Miolanai’s mood had not been the sort that would have benefited from stopping at a cafe for lunch, and so he found himself making up a large platter, the hilt of the kitchen knife smooth and familiar in his grip. Because of Sula, the Crow was not so used to making his own food anymore, but things like this were not beyond his capacity. Arranging melon, figs, a few peeled sweet oranges, and some strawberries that needed to be eaten before they spoiled on the platter, the Antivan hummed quietly to himself, tunelessly. One of his mottos was that a quiet assassin was up to something, and with the understandably dark place that the Warden’s mind had slipped off to, he wanted to be sure that he continued to make enough noise for her comfort. 

After adding a fan of thinly sliced chorizo to the plate, Zevran went to a bookshelf, looking for something to catch his attention. Frowning in annoyance when he realized that there was nothing that seemed like it would meet his needs, he went to the Warden, putting the plate on the floor near her. The only other thing he could think of was drawing, or perhaps painting. Ember lifted his head to chirp at him, and he reached out to stroke along the bridge of the cat’s nose, before leaving to gather his drawing book. 

“Whatcha you doing?” The question came off as a thing specifically constructed to be polite, an effort of willpower. 

Returning, the large bound book in hand, as well as a few pencils, he folded his legs beneath him, sinking to the floor. “I am going to draw.”

“Oh.” Miolanai blinked slowly as she turned her face towards his, her chin tucking over Ember’s head. “Why?”

Quirking a brow, Zevran opened the book midway, to his last work in progress. “Because there is nothing on my shelves I feel all that desirous of reading, and conversation right now is not something you seem to wish.”

“We could spar,” she said, however, the offer came out so half-heartedly, it made him frown at her.

Reaching out he nudged the plate of food closer to her. “If you need to, then yes, we could, but perhaps today is a day for quiet and introspection for you. I am here if you need me, or if you wish to talk, but this time is yours. Do not waste it on things you can do just any day. Your weapons will not up and walk away, your skills will not simply vanish if you take time to acclimate.”

“I don’t like being still.” Miolanai rolled onto her side, curling around Emi, who squeed at her, wiggling his rump into her abdomen and nipping her wrist before purring thrice as loud. “I’m not used to it. The quiet gets...too loud, and...it’s...y’know?”

Selecting a charcoal pencil, he set to shading the bare foot on the page in his lap. “It is possible that I do know, but I am not telepathic, and I cannot hear the thoughts in your mind, so I am not sure that I know what you know.”

“Denerim, it was,” she mused, her voice drifting off to nothing. “I know there was screamin’, but it was quiet. Fires raged, there were screams and shouts and cries and...and yet it was silent. It was like my head was stuffed with cotton, and when I’m too still, I can hear that nothin’ all over again, but other times, all I can hear is the cries, the anguish and pain.”

He had once read a book, one that was transcribed from the memories of a survivor of the Qun’ari invasion of Antiva. The woman who had written the initial journal described something similar. It had come to be known as “battle shock.” The stories from that time were nightmarish at best, not for any true gore or pain, but for the numbness that traveled the mind and soul. Sometimes, he himself had a few moments, usually when there was laughter in a crowd that was too close to Rinna’s. He would turn and search and forget, just for a moment, that she was no longer there, that any laughter like hers was not going to be her, now matter how hard he searched for her ghost. Such episodes left him feeling empty and numb, shaken for days, when nothing could fill the void. Thankfully, over time, those instances had decreased in frequency, mostly due to the way he made himself create connections and anchors to the world of the living.

It didn’t mean that he couldn’t hear Rinna sometimes, whispering in the night, a slim hand touching his hair, like she had once upon a time. When that happened, he wanted to die all over again, particularly since, thinking on her, he couldn’t for the life of him remember her eye colour anymore. That had happened two years ago, that shaking, trembling realization that he couldn’t recall the shade of her eyes. She was slipping through his fingers, and the harder he clutched, the faster his love fled. 

He sighed quietly, “All you can do, my Warden, is to hang on and connect to something. There comes a point when throwing yourself into work does nothing but compound the problem, the memories.”

“Yeah, connection isn’t somethin’ I do,” she countered, pressing her face into the serval’s shoulder, hiding away. “Movement, work, sparring, somethin’, anythin’ to fill my hands and mind with somethin’ else.”

“The marvellous thing about people, my dear, is that you can connect to them in many ways.” Moving closer on the floor, he scooted over so that he could push his knee under her head, supporting it. “One does not always have to be in opposition to gain distraction or connection. Connection,” he said, reaching out to twirl a strand of silver hair around a finger, “comes in as many forms as there are thoughts.”

“Like what? Sex?” He watched the other elf roll her head to look up at him. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for that.”

Tapping her lightly between the brows, Zevran tutted at her, “Tchk, no. That is one way, yes, but I have heard how finicky you Fereldans are about that. No, there are children in the streets you could play with who would welcome an adult showing them attention, as their parents are working, and you could learn from them many things. The best instructors in language are children. They do not think one dimwitted for not knowing something or understanding it. Such marvelous acceptance they are capable of showing, if they have been shown that themselves.” Leaning over his book once more, he added in some details on the cheek that he had drawn yesterday. There was a scar on one side of the lip he had forgotten. “They also are easy to laugh, their...innocence may not be entirely real, but they are pure in their own way. A reminder of what the future truly holds.”

Miolanai pursed her lips, snagging a piece of cheese and munching on it, “I guess the present is for you and me, but the tomorrows are for them and those that come after, huh?”

“Just so, my dear, just so,” he replied, nodding in agreement. 

_And here I had thought that leading this horse to water would be fruitless, and it would not drink,_ he thought, looking over his drawing of the Warden, where it sprawled over the page. Smiling in satisfaction, he touched up a few things, pleased with the work on the whole. _To be sure, we shall have to travel this ground more than once, but it is a start. And a good one._

“You never did tell me what you’re drawing,” she said, tilting her head on his knee to try and see clearly what he had done.

Turning the book and holding it up over her head, he showed her. It was an image of Miolanai as she had been yesterday, with Dieda’s little sister in her arms, the two of them smiling, while the little girl had one hand buried in the elf’s hair. The main difference was what he had drawn the Warden wearing. There was no armour on her, but there were weapons on her back as though to demonstrate an open and protective bearing. He had drawn her in a slit tunic that went to her knees and tight leggings, with the gray and cream shading of charcoal on paper granting a depth to imply shapes and colour. Tiny details of stitches even showed at hem and collars, but it was the smiles that Zevran thought most important. 

For a long time Miolanai stared at it, and he hoped she was picking out every layer of meaning that was in it.


	7. Chapter 7

XXX  
Guild-ed 7  
XXX

Her stomach growled. Ember, who had been asleep, sat up, his head turning towards her in surprise and curiosity, ears swiveling. He chirped at her, nosing at her chin and laying a paw over her stomach. He had to be almost as smart as Ser Iptitious, he was so perceptive.

She scratched his head, “Yeah, Emi, I’m hungry.”

Zevran called from his position at his easel, “Allow me to finish this section, and I shall see what might be had from my kitchen, and perhaps I can show you a few things, in case you ever wish to try your hand at it.”

Sitting up slowly Miolanai stretched, rising smoothly to her feet, joints popping, “Sounds good.”

Wandering over to one of the Crow’s weapons racks, she admired some of the blades he had. Most looked custom made, some even had rune slots. Running a finger down one long, swooping sword, the power in it thrummed up her digit, singing softly to itself with magic. Cocking her head and squinting, she thought she detected elvish runes chased in almost identical metal as the blade’s bulk.

“Ah, my _enansal mi’lin_.” Zevran came up behind her, pulling the weapon from the rack.

She frowned in curiosity, “Sounds elvish.”

“It is,” he acknowledged, lips curling. “My mother was Dalish.”

Taking another look at him, a better one than she had afforded herself before, Miolanai gave a little start. His features, which she had taken as being merely handsome, were not soft enough to be purely a city elf’s. His nose was far too sharp, his mouth too wide, and his forehead too high, and that was not to mention his ears, which were some of the largest she had ever seen, swooping with grace rather than flopping about or being tiny little things stuck onto the sides of some person’s head. The high cheekbones and slope of his chin, the very shape of his eyes, down to his shoulders – he was built for battle the way a Dalish was. Whipcord and lupine muscle, the bones deceptive for their thinness – which was countered by the very broad setting of his body from head to toe. No one could ever mistake him for what he really was, if they actually looked.

No, he was quite clearly not of city stock.

“I thought you said you were born in a whorehouse?” she asked, confused now.

“I was.” He stepped back so he could begin gliding from one stance to another, so slowly it looked kind of awkward. “And before you ask, yes, she was a whore. She was sold for her husband’s debts when he died from the marsh fever that spreads some summers, but I never knew much more than that of her, for she died birthing me.” She could see his eyes were closed, features peaceful, the blade being swung and slashed through the air, as he began to weave in and out of shadow that shouldn’t be there, the speed of his movements increasing just enough to turn the stances into a solo dance. “I gained life and breath from her, a set of gloves, my name and my looks.”

The Warden leaned against the wall watching him move like poetry. “So how’d ya get yer... _enansal mi’lin_?”

Eventually the Antivan swirled to a stop, darkness tattering around him, one hand wrapping around the blade near the hilt, blood welling from the wound, and slipping down the grooves. “I left Antiva City in search of the Dalish, and I found them. From tribe to tribe I was passed, until I met with what had been my mother’s clan.”

Viscous blood slithered down the dark length, pooling between knuckles, and eventually only a single drop hit the floor. Miolanai’s skin crawled at the sight, because the air hummed loudly against her flesh with a beat that was sourceless. Like drums echoing, just beyond the range of hearing their cadence, but not of sensing it. With a start, she realized that the sword was drinking Zevran’s blood.

Shuddering, she stared at it aghast. “What _is_ it?”

“The blade of blessed blood.” Unwrapping his fingers from the naked metal, he showed his bloodied palm, “It bonds to its bearer, more alive than mere metal, and becomes a home for the blood of the warrior who carries it. It contains a soul’s fragment, the wealth of knowledge and experience condensed within. They are passed down generation to generation, with very few newly minted each passing century...”

Taking his hand cautiously, Miolanai inspected it for what would have to be a horrid wound for a fighter, let alone an artist. “What? It’s...gone. There ain’t no mark!” Her head snapped up to level a narrow-eyed look at him. “What sorta fel magic is that shit?”

“A Keeper’s magic, a craftsman’s skill, the knowledge of many lives,” he said, shrugging. “A Keeper’s life is long, but if the Creators are merciful, the Keeper has time to add their essence and will to an _enansal mi’lin_. It is the highest honour for a family to gain a blooding blade. If a family has no suitable or worthy warriors, the blade goes to one who qualifies.”

Staring down at the sword he held casually, she swallowed. “How’d ya get this...one?”

“It belonged to my mother,” he replied, shrugging again. “She left it behind with the clan, not so selfish as to think she should take it with her. Keeper Harathin gave it to me as a way to bid me stay with the tribe. Since I could not stay away from the Guild, she told me to take it with me anyway so that I would always _have_ to come back to them...or so she believes. Who am I to know if this has the power to hold me in a geas to the clan? My grandmother gave me the family bow and a few odds and ends, though she died shortly after I met her, and I had no time to get to know her.”

A Warden was called “gray” for many reasons. Maleficarum, apostates, mages, rogues, murderers, assassins, monsters in the mortal flesh, kings, queens, princes, Templars, bakers and the destitute – all were welcome, and all could be called upon by the Wardens. Any tool could be, and had been, used to protect Thedas from darkspawn. Ethics was a commodity that Wardens couldn't always afford. But Miolanai had been raised on the belief in the Maker and the Chantry. She had seen Andraste’s Ashes, miracles and curses and witches and monsters called “men” and “heroes”, and even so this _enansal mi’lin_ made her queasy with discomfort. It was not that she had any particular objection to blood magic in theory, only how it was used.

In spite of that, she was elven, and a piece of her itched to connect to the thing, as if it were singing for her blood to be added to its reservoir. To distract herself from responding to that call, she asked, “What’s it do with this...knowledge?”

“It teaches those who wield it, guiding the holder in more styles of fighting,” he said, flipping the sword and presenting it to her hilt-first. “If you can still your mind, you may even hear voices instructing you. The experience is different from individual to individual. The most deaf can hear nothing, feel nothing from it, but those who are in tune with their natures and minds will at least feel the urge to move into previously unknown stances that are suddenly familiar. Inspiration to try something else comes, as when you have consumed too much drink, you wish to dance, even if you cannot, or sing, no matter that you can carry no tune.”

Hand reaching out against her will, she took the hilt. It vibrated sharply, sending a jolt up her shoulder, then settled down quickly into a bare shivering pulse. Warmth bloomed in her palm then, the bone hilt was unwrapped, but shallow channels were etched into it. Staggering forward, Miolanai was only held up by Zevran’s arm which came around her shoulders as he stepped to one side, the other hand still remaining clasped on the lower end of the hilt. An overlay of images rushed through her mind too fast for her to catch, and with a cry she threw herself away from Crow and haunted blade.

Surprise painted Zevran’s face as he followed quickly, catching the sword and keeping it away from her. “Warden? What is it?”

“It...it...” Eyes painfully wide, her breath came in gasps as she clutched at her chest.

Squatting, the Crow set the _enansal mi’lin_ down. “It what?”

“It wants me,” she whispered. Drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs, she trembled, staring at the still-hungry sword. “It was...showin’ me things. It wants...somethin’...me...blood?”

“Hmmn.” His gold eyes turned speculative, “Do you bear any Dalish blood that you know of? I know little of your mother’s lineage. Your father’s family have been carpenters for centuries, so it could not come from him.”

“Nah,” she said, shaking her head. “I ain’t know much ‘bout my mother’s life. She just...she just was ‘Mother’, who cooked, cleaned and taught me to pick locks and use daggers. She didn’t have any _vallislin_ , but I didn’t even know she came from the north ‘til you told me.”

The pink of his tongue darted out, sweeping over his bottom lip, “Perhaps she became _uhalamlin_ before she was marked an adult – forsworn – but _enansal mi’linen_ know only blood and experience. Perhaps it sensed yours. If so, all it wishes is to have a taste, to add to the trove of knowledge it already has.” Zevran stood up and put the blade away. “Until you can still your mind, it is best if you do not touch it, yes?”

With that, she could agree.

Scrunching her eyes tightly, the Warden shivered again, until warm hands rested on her shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“Certainly.” Amber sweet oil filled her nose, the musk of man, and for a moment all she wanted to do was turn towards him and press her face into his chest.

It would be nice to lean on someone again.

Standing abruptly, Miolanai went to Zevran’s bathroom, crossing the flat in quick strides. Afterimages burned her retinas, making everything sway like Isabella’s _Siren’s Call_ in rough waters. The experience had imparted better balance, so she could fake a steady tread, no matter that her ears were ringing. ‘Whispers’ the Crow had said. Well, what she was hearing were screams, like the begging of the dying for the pain to stop or a last drink of water, or maybe the cries of a colicy babe. At worst, it was a plea and accusation rolled into one, that rose and fell in wordless chanting. Going to the spigot, she twisted the cold on full blast and shoved her head into the basin, the surprisingly cool water soaking through her short, ragged locks. Releasing the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding, the fingers of one hand curled tightly around the tap’s handle, the other maintained a death grip on the basin’s edge.

Sucking in water tinged air, the Warden fought the images that still cajoled her. Before the night was through, she worried she would have to open a vein and let the blade drink her in, if only to stop the howling in trees, calling animals and croaking hisses of words that may not have been words. Miolanai felt more than heard Zevran come behind her, so she didn’t startle when he touched her again. He was always reaching out to touch her. It was aggravating and irritating, and very much wanted. If he weren’t old enough to be her father, she would find him more attractive. Of course, her lonely skin couldn’t tell the difference between an old man and a young one, but she could, and Miolanai always drew the line at a decade’s difference.

It was why when she figured out Leliana’s age she shied away, and Isabella had been unsuitable as well. Not...too old to be with, but too hardened by years. That’s what age did, she thought, and having two people together who were unable to see the wonder of life, to show the one who was blind to it by age...no. The Warden was well aware that she needed someone fresher, younger, who could still laugh and cry and giggle over children’s games, so that maybe she could learn how to be innocent again, too.

But the warm hands, so warm, radiating heat and strength were soothing upon her back. Circles were stroked over the light material of her deep purple tunic-vest, and it was this, more than the shock of cold water, that brought her back. The haunting sounds were still in her head, but they had faded to a deep buzz and could be tucked away and ignored.

“I need a drink,” blowing the water from her mouth, she finally turned the tap off.

“Then a drink you shall have, my dear.” A towel fell over her wet head before she could reach for one on her own, and brisk rubbing squeezed the excess water away before being twisted into a strange mound atop her head. “Wine would not do, if the look on your face is anything that I might judge by.”

“The stronger and stiffer the better,” she mumbled as she followed him into his kitchen area. There was an armoire-like, free-standing pantry that he opened, pulling fruit and a bottle out. “Jus’ gimme some of the bottle, don’t need any food in the stomach yet.”

The Crow ignored her, jerking his chin back towards the sleeping area. “Go to the roof and pick some mint, if you know what it looks like.”

She blinked at him slowly, “Why?”

“I would say ‘trust me’, but few take it well when a Crow makes such a request,” he replied, humour flashing over his face quickly as he fished out a few of those ubiquitous glasses.

Sighing, knowing that she would get no straight answer, the Warden ascended the steps to the platform that held his sleeping and reading area. The bed looked inviting as she passed it; the sanguine and royal blue bedding was turned down, probably something Sula had done, as she herself hadn’t, when she made the bed yesterday.

Miolanai climbed the twisting stair to the roof and pushed the slanted door open. The sun was a fat orange disc in the sky, shedding light over the white-washed roof, but the sides of the roof had partial walls that carried slanting peaks inwards as well as outwards, providing a square of shade around the entire building. Or at least she supposed so, as the roof seemed to be split in half, with Zevran’s side being partially covered by a triangular canvas awning.

Blinking against the sudden light, her eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the tiered bench up against one wall that held urns, pots and long boxes of plants, glazed terracotta throwing back blue glows in the air. Then there were the large boxes that held some straight stalked plants, with long green pods on them, remaining straight with the help of a trellis. Another held ripening tomatoes, and other vegetables as well. Like the _jardines_ , it seemed the Crow had made this little rooftop garden for the purpose of being prepared. There was a large tub as well with pipes that carried water to it which seemed to be for rain storage. Exploring that end of the roof slowly, she sniffed at some plants that looked familiar; half were poisonous, the other half for herbal remedies, or so it seemed. Eventually she came to the crisp and coolly sweet smelling mint, but to be sure she plucked a single leaf, crushing it and inhaling its fragrance.

Once she was assured that it was mint and nothing more, she pulled off a few more sprigs. Satisfied with her little prize she continued her circuit, coming upon a glass box filled with rock and sand. As she leaned close, a sudden hissing came from the case, along with a hard strike against it, too fast for her eye to track, and she straightened up, leaning away. Inside was a snake that blended almost perfectly with the contents of the case. Its triangular head was fat in the cheeks and had a snub nose with a little horn on it. It was coiled tightly, head bobbing back and forth low to its body, ready for another strike.

Swallowing her disgust, Miolanai turned to flee back down to the safer environs of the flat, just as Zevran was coming up, one of those ever-present trays in hand.

Holding out a glass, he suggested, “Chew a piece of mint while you drink this.”

“I don’t need anythin’ fancy,” she shrugged, even as she did as he said.

The mint was soothing and smooth in her mouth, and when the liquor hit her tongue, it was like a riot of thick honey that burned as it went down. It was the contrast between sharp heat and soothing cool that was surprising and quite pleasing. Draining the glass, she had only a moment before his laughter filled her ears. The alcohol had an unexpected kick, and she felt her cheeks flush with the flood of chemicals.

“Whew, that stuff’s...stronger than I thought it’d be,” she said, peering at the empty cup. Her mouth wanted more, but her head told her that wouldn’t be too smart.

“ _Ron miel_ has that effect,” he said, smiling at her. “I suppose I should not be surprised by your speedy consumption. Here.” He picked up his glass, pouring half the contents into her cup, “Now, simply sip it and let it roll through you. It is a thing to be savoured and enjoyed. It is not at all like the paint-thinner that you Fereldens drink. For something to be strong, it need not always be unpleasant.”

Following him to a divan big enough for two, Miolanai plopped down on it, her head fuzzy from the strong drink, “You could make a killing sellin’ that stuff.”

“There are many things that we Antivans do not export – coffee, tea, things of that nature.” Sipping slowly, he laid back against the woven wicker support. “Rice also. Other countries have barley and wheat, which we also have, but for the most part rice is a staple of meals at home. Bread is for fast meals.”

Her stomach gurgled at the mention of food, “That reminds me. Food. I’m kinda hungry. That platter of cheese and stuff, it was good, but I’m hungry again.”

“Mmn, a moment. Allow us to relax for a short time, and then I can show you how we make suitable food here.” His eyes were closed, an arm tucked behind his head, chest rising and falling where he lay beside her.

From time to time he would sip his drink, without the benefit of the mint she had picked earlier. To quell the rumbling in her stomach, the Warden chewed on the leaves, watching him with lidded eyes. The smell of him was similar to the taste of the _ron miel_ with none of the acrid bite of alcohol, and in some ways it made her head swim just as much as the alcohol had. Allowing herself to lay back, it was a monumental effort of will to not roll onto her side facing him. He had removed the vest he was wearing earlier, leaving his torso bare to the air, and ink swirled over his sides and shoulders, almost meeting in the center of his chest over his heart, but not quite. Up the left side of his neck more ink flowed, all in shades of black over every inch of the bronze skin. In some places – like the three lines on his cheek – the black had faded to a deep, dark, red-brown.

With a mind of its own, one of her hands reached up, tracing one thick line that ran along the underside of his bicep. “How long did this take?”

A lazy gold eye opened before sinking closed again. “Perhaps an hour. I never spend less than three or four hours on Zamitie’s table. It is not worth her time or mine for anything less. Beneath the black are other colours, other kinds of tattoos.”

“But you’ve covered them up?” she asked, unable to decipher any reason for that.

“Spells and prayers are one and the same.” Muscles flexing, he sat up enough to drag his pantleg up, “Beneath each tattoo I have are layers of other work. They are not aesthetic, though they are beautiful. Zamitie started off with blue and pale brown for my first works – sigils and such – and then when I returned for more, she overlaid those with other patterns until now, where she merely uses black upon me.”

“What ‘bout all those drawings of...things, she had in her books? I saw animals and things, not...not much like what you describe.” Absentmindedly stroking his bicep, she followed and re-followed the single line of ink she could see.

The Antivan returned to lounging fully, a low hum issuing from his throat, “She does not work on Crows at all. It is her rule.”

She snorted, “Seems like she breaks rules for you.”

“Ah, but to her, I am still a little boy, all limbs and large eyes, with messy hair,” he replied, obviously deeply amused. “She was one of the whores who raised me, until one of the _pintores_ saw the work she had been doing even in such sad settings, and purchased her debt. Sa’id payed off every single scrap of it and made her his apprentice.”

 _That_ explained her manner with him. “So, she raised you, and then taught you, too.”

“Mmmn...yes, I spent most of my days that I was allowed freedom as a youth in her shop, learning from her and from Maestro Sa’id ibn-Rashid.” He held up his hand, fingers splayed. “Because of the skills I learned from them, I was slotted to be a painter by the Guild, rather than going into metal-working, as I had wanted.” A flick of his thumb over her ear made the tiny hoops jingle in a way that almost tickled. “But I can still make some small trinkets, yes? Any _pintore_ with enough spice left to breathe can make at the least the things that their patrons wear initially. My hands were always busy with chains and wire. That is how Zamitie teaches. She lets you watch her Work, while your hands must always stay nimble with wire and files and cutters.”

“But I still don’t get why you have so many...layers.” Her mouth tugged down into a frown when she realized that she had been about to prop her chin on his shoulder as they spoke. Forcibly, she pulled her hand away from his arm, as well. “Even if she don’t work on Crows, that’s not what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. I mean why are your ‘paintings’ the way the are, and not like the ones she has on display?”

He was still for a moment, as though he were suspended in amber, before he said, “Because what one does for family is different from what is offered to others who pay with coin, not blood. Is this not the way of it in your family?”

“Family’s...not somethin’ I really have anymore.” Waving her hand, the Warden sat up, crossing her legs. “My blood wouldn’t know me, and I wouldn’t know them. The family that I earned through blood is dead or scattered.”

The divan creaked as the Crow shifted, one knee coming up and a long arm moving to prop her back up. “Layers upon layers. Blood is shed, it is made and poured and remade. The family we have at birth is not the family we have at death, my dear. Besides, what is family but a group of people who try to meet each others’ needs?”

Shaking her head, she looked at him askance, “By that definition, that makes you my family, so, not a very good way to put it.”

“Truly? Mmn, it is not so bad.” He swayed towards her enough to nudge her playfully, “Or, at least, the view is not so bad.”

Surprised, a small laugh came from her, and she swatted him, “Maybe fer me it ain’t so bad.”

“And what other view could I have been speaking of?” the Antivan’s expression was sardonic and slightly self-mocking.

Miolanai held her hands up before her chest, “Dunno, maybe the view you have? I feel like I’m supposed to be in some place dancin’ and servin’ customers, with my tits hangin’ out like this.”

“If only you would wear the binder I tried to hand you this morning, you would not be gracing so many with such a fine demonstration of your elven assets.” She watched his eyes roll and they sparkled in an unfamiliar way. Some of the Dalish of Lanaya’s clan had eyes like that, and Sten’s violet orbs had held a strange flickering fire in them of a similar nature. Zevran’s were like beaten metal or shined glass, sharp and cutting. “Not that I mind. A woman should not wear them when she is not in armour.”

She snorted at him, “Yeah, well, you try carrying these soft, squishy boulders around without yer back getting thrown out.”

“Ah! An invitation! Splendid.” One hand reached out as though he expected her to let him actually touch her like that.

Ducking away, she scrambled to the end of the divan. “Oh no, you don’t!”

He laughed, “Tchk, oh, you wound me! To tempt such a man as I with the promise of such luscious delights and then withdraw them in the next breath! Truly you are a most _vicious_ woman, my dear.”

“That’s what they all say,” she replied glibly, dusting her hands and rolling onto her feet. “Food now, before you start lookin’ too tasty to resist takin’ a bite.”

From the way he smirked up at her, Miolanai dreaded what he would say next. Thankfully he shot off no quip, only bowing mockingly and gesturing to the door. Fleeing before he could change his mind, she knew she would have to watch her mouth a little more closely.

XXX

“You said you knew how to cook,” she said, watching, as the Crow kept up a steady stream of curses.

“ _Comemierda, hija de puta, braska!_ You stupid, _cabrone_....” he hissed, trailing off and switching back to Antivan faster than he had gone to Common.

The kitchen was filled with the raucous scent of burnt rice and too many spices. First, there hadn’t been enough water in the rice, and then he had added too much yogurt, or so he said, and all because she had asked why he was doing what he was doing to the food, and what he hoped to accomplish with certain actions... Like anyone would if they were trying to learn how to make something. However, the unflappable Crow was rather flapped, and in some ways she almost expected him to start hopping from side to side like an agitated, squawking bird.

Catching the knife he threw at the counter when it rebounded from the force, she said, “Look, maybe we should just throw in the towel and go to a cafe.”

“ _No!_ This is... this...” He rubbed hands over his face, as though he could wipe away the irritation so easily. Miolanai knew well what that was like. “I do know how to cook. Tchk, you are just so...distracting, peppering me with questions the way a street vendor over-spices their food! You do not know even the basic combinations or foods or...or anything!”

Setting the knife down, she tried to be reasonable. “Hey, it was yer idea to teach me how to cook Antivan stuff. I’d’ve been happy with some rice or whatever.”

“Aurgh, yes, that was before I found out that you have no nose!” he snapped.

She muffled her laughter in her hand, “I got a nose, and it works just fine.”

“No, it does not!” he replied querulously, shuffling pots and pans over the strange cooking grills that lay over lit coals. “If it did, you would know that you must smell the spices, not choke on them.”

“You’re the one who told me it needed more turmeric and that I was being ‘too stingy’,” she pointed out, mildly.

He was clearly struggling for his usual aplomb, “And then you saw fit to dump half the tin into the rice. I said be free with it, not...drown everything.”

Shrugging, Miolanai went to his sack of rice and scooped some into another pot. “I think it’s time I taught you how to make puddin’.”

Behind her Zevran was quiet, “You think to teach _me_ how to cook? I cook perfectly! When I am not being pestered...”

“Oh shut up and be a man,” she retorted, plunking the small pan on a free grill and then getting some water and milk.

Watching water boil was a rather boring affair, but Miolanai did so, ignoring the hovering elf. That is, until he began pouring spices and honey and some of that pungent alcohol into her pudding. She was too hungry to let him ruin her meal, and her own patience was frayed.

She caught his wrist. “Hey! Stop that! This is proper lunch puddin’. I ain’t want you muckin’ it up, or I _will_ eat you. A hungry Warden is no laughin’ matter.”

“It will be filthy bland if you leave it just so,” he said, frowning at her deeply, shifting his wrist about in her grasp.

“Better bland than inedible,” she said, stirring the pot, watching as it bubbled to itself wetly. “Not everythin’ has to taste good for it to fill you up.”

He gave an almost huffily rebellious dash of more spices, hot cinnamon, clove, allspice and nutmeg, wafting in the air. “But it is better to have it taste good than bad, if it is possible, yes?”

Eventually she ladled the finished product into bowls, which the other elf _insisted_ on adding dried currants and pistachios to. At least he hadn’t burnt the coffee, like he had the other food, including the date-stuffed chicken breasts, that the very sight of him flavouring as he had sprinkled spices atop it had made Miolanai bite her lip. The pudding she had made contained more money’s-worth of spices than her entire Alienage saw in a year, and he had dashed them onto everything like they were free.

The mash was sticky, but yes, she had to admit it was tasty. Finishing her first bowl, the Warden went back for seconds. The memory of her mother making pudding for her when she was ill, and the fact that on birthday mornings, Adaia would somehow come up with a little cinnamon or clove to dash over the milky mash was one she hadn’t thought on in years. But the smell of milk and grain was a thing that had been tucked away in the hollow halls of memory, collecting dust. Until today, Miolanai had never really recalled the tiny details of the pudding Adaia would make her. That faint hint of sweetness and the savoury flash of something spicy from far-off places. It was almost like it was trying to recreate what she herself had made today.

Heavy with milk fat and grain, dried fruit and nuts, it was as like and unlike Adaia’s pudding as it could get.

And so, Miolanai dug in, filling her belly with more than just food, but moldering memories. They were twice as filling as the rice mixture. With quick, jerky shoveling motions, her bowl was emptied a second time, uncaring of propriety, the gnawing emptiness in her stomach screaming for her to fill it, fill it, _fill it_ , until she burst. When she was just about to go grab a refill, she realized that Ember was sitting on a pillow beside Zevran, and he had his own bowl.

...And was scooping little pawsful up to his mouth so he could lick it away daintily.

Just like Zevran was doing.

Except Zevran wasn’t licking his hand or fingers. Well, his fingers every now and then, but he had refrained from using a spoon.

Plunking back down on her own cushion, she said, stunned, “This doesn’t have any meat, though. Why’s he eatin’ it?”

“It has milk, and he quite likes food of all varieties,” the Crow replied, shrugging and scooping some of the thick pudding up. “Later, I shall shred what was ruined in the kitchen for his meal, but he likes to eat when I eat. So, a small bowl of this will not hurt him. In fact, he is rather fond of figs, cooked, dried or fresh, almost as much as anything with garlic in it.”

Baffled, Miolanai stared for a few seconds, until the feline realized she was watching him. Then he chirped, holding out a pawful to her, like he was trying to share. A strange melting sensation welled up in her chest; the cat was so childlike and earnest.

Reaching out she touched the top of his paw. “Thank you, Emi, but that’s all for you.” She pushed gently on his foot to show him that he could keep his little bowl of pudding for himself, smiling down at him so he would know she meant it.

Looking away from Zevran who had started petting Ember, giving his own encouragement to the cat, Miolanai stared down into her bowl, long and hard. Those two were very much family, just as everyone on this street was Zevran’s family. He knew people’s names, their histories, and they knew him. Maybe not his history but they knew the man who played with children in the street and painted the apartment building in wild sprays of colour. Alistair had been her family after she was forced to leave the Alienage. Wynne had been a slightly judgemental grandmother, Leliana sometimes a sister, sometimes a mother. Morrigan, the Chasind...she had been as much Miolanai’s blood in all the ways that counted, the way that Alistair was. Oghren was the drunk, annoying uncle, who meant well. Sten had been the sort of man she would have been proud to call father. Anders, Nathaniel, Velanna, Sigrun – they were like shadow replacements for those who had gone through the Blight with her. Well-meaning, but not quite filling the void. Even so, they too, were like family.

There wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for them.

Playing with her horn spoon in the bowl, scraping the sides free of the last vestiges of pudding – no nuts or fruit left in the bowl, as those had already been eaten – Miolanai slowly savored the last little mouthful. No, the family one had when one died is never the one that one was born with, raised with or lived with, necessarily. Closing her eyes, the Warden sighed softly as the pudding finished melting on her tongue before it was swallowed.

And wasn’t it strange that the very spices Zevran used so heavily were the same that Adaia had, but with the light touch of making do?

Pursing her lips, her eyes popped open. _Bronto shit. I need another drink...._

XXX

“S’alright,” she said, making an effort not to slur. “Hit me again.” She held out her glass. “That is some seriously good shit.”

There was sloshing from the bottle when he shook it at her. “Ah, _ron miel_ \- it is both the working man’s drink and the aristocrat’s.”

Between them was a plate filled with sliced green fruit he called ‘limes’, and some sunnily yellow ones he called ‘lemons’. She had never seen the fruit before, outside of the custards and jams that were popular in Amaranthine. Miolanai had to say she liked them fresh much better, though their tartness made her lips pucker at the sour, but it was a nice sort of thing, and it also went well in a glass of that liquor he kept pouring.

Picking up a wedge of lime and sucking on it, she asked, “So, so what is it? ‘Sides good that is.”

“Made from sugarcane and honey,” he said, topping off her glass, and then his own. “Similar to rum, however, I do not know if you have ever had that, either.”

Damn him, he wasn’t even showing any effects other than a permanent twinkle and flush. It wasn’t fair, especially since it had been just before she left the Vigil that she had bothered with physical necessity, and he was busy looking tasty like a tall, spicy glass of honey-sweet rum. Rather than do anything foolish, Miolanai distracted herself with another deep draw on her own glass, and then reached for more mint to chew.

“Shit,” she said, fingers meeting an empty bowl. “We’re outta mint.” She looked over at Zevran just in time to see him with the last sprig between his fingers, and a roguish gleam to his eye.

“Not entirely,” he averred, a self-satisfied smirk playing around his lips.

Owlishly, she blinked at him, “Heeey. You ain’t been usin’ it. I have. Lemme have that.”

“Oh? Is that any way to ask for something?” He put the sprig between his teeth, brows rising high on his forehead.

Leaning forward, Miolanai went to pull it from his mouth, “C’mon, please?”

The Crow was too fast – and obviously not drunk enough, damn him – for her and he twitched to the side before she could snag it. “Mm-no. You have to be nice to get it.”

Huffing, she crossed her arms, “I am nice!”

“So says the woman who continues to insist everyone is _old_ ,” he snorted, still sucking on the mint’s stem, rolling it side to side, so the verdant leaf twirled from one end of his mouth to the other.

“I said ‘please’, what more do ya expect?” she snorted back at him, and took his drink from him so she could polish it off as punishment. “And you are old. Maybe I should start callin’ you Papae, since by yer definition we’re family.”

Nostrils flared as he snorted again, leaning back on his hands. “I am only Emi’s papi. If I was _yours_ I would have taken you over my knee years ago. Tchk, so misbehaved.”

Playfulness fell from her, a flash of cold coming over her, lucidity returning like a slap. “I wouldn’t try that particular tactic. Ever. Particularly if you like breathin’ normally and keeping your skin on your muscles, rather than being made into new armour for me.”

His quick glance was surprised. “And have I ever said I would do such a thing? Do not mistake what I said I would have done _if_ I were your father, with what I would do since I am _not_ your father. I happen to think not being your father carries a great many more advantages than being such.” Curling forward, his tattoos suddenly became a distraction as they curled and twisted over his shifting muscles.

And he still had her mint.

“Alright, so if ‘please’ ain’t nice ‘nough, what is?” she asked, eyeing the leaf.

Infuriatingly, he shrugged, “I do not know, why not tell me?” The little leaf shivered as the sprig bobbed along his lip in time with his words.

He wouldn’t let her take it with her hands, but if she leaned in close, she might be able to snatch it from him with her own teeth before he realized what she was about. After all, he had to be at least a little drunk, too, so his reflexes couldn’t be all that great.

Shifting, she leaned closer, the smell of mint, rum, limes, spices and amber filling her senses, making her dizzy, and she remembered yesterday – was it really only yesterday? – how his tongue had felt in her mouth. Smooth and silken, and the taste of the spices he so regularly ate flooding her mouth. He hadn’t been like any man she had kissed before; it had been languid and warm, so very unlike other men. No biting or hard sucking, making her feel like her head was about to be snapped off. No, his mouth had been hot and exploring, his lips soft as rose petals. Almost like a woman, but unlike one in that he had been thorough and opened his lips to her wide, so that nowhere that his tongue could reach went unexplored.

Reaching out to find better balance, her hands landed on his shoulders, and his skin was silken hot, dense with muscle. Leaning even closer, seeking to grab the sprig of mint from his lips, Miolanai thought of all that in a moment, and forgot about the herb, even as her mouth came into contact with his. Heat spread like the taste of mint in her mouth, the leaf forgotten even when it was rolled into his mouth, pulling her tongue along with it. Inhaling deeply, it was like downing an entire bottle of _ron miel_ in one go.

Moaning softly, she leaned in against him, her breasts crushing against his hard chest as she wound her arms around his shoulders. For balance. Just for balance, that was all. And the leg she had to pull forward to lay across his lap, that was for balance too, so she wouldn’t fall forward. Of course. That was logical. Very logical.

What she couldn’t justify with logic was her other leg wrapping around his waist or her hand wandering into his hair, freeing it of some of the many charms that bound it into loose ropes. Not that logic mattered much when there was a low thrum vibrating from his throat and into her mouth, which she returned, scooting closer to him, crawling further into his lap. With a tilt of his head, his mouth broke free of hers, taking the taste of honey and mint from her. Miolanai whined low in annoyance, but quickly stopped when the Crow began nuzzling at her jaw, nipping just under her ear.

The room swam, and she had to close her eyes to block it, her hands cupping his head, holding him closer as she arched when his arms came around her waist. Beneath her crotch she could feel the shifting swell of his manhood filling with interest, and she bore down on it, hungrily, rubbing against him hard. For this she was rewarded by teeth being raked down her neck before they were buried in the junction of shoulder and neck. Whimpering, the Warden’s fuzzy head couldn’t remember even a shadow of logic, only the feeling of heat and man and drink.

A large-palmed hand slipped around her waist to her front, curling around one of her silk-covered, unbound breasts, squeezing and testing the weight. It felt so good to be touched like that. It had really been too long. Pulling his head away from her, Miolanai went to his mouth, which parted, meeting her halfway, and again that heady mix filled her mind.

A low moan was drug from her as her hips automatically rolled forward against his, pressing that suddenly hard length firmly against her. Wriggling a hand down between them, she measured it by the length of her fingers, breath catching in her throat as it twitched under her palm and grew even larger. If his mouth tasted so good, what would his skin taste like? The very thought of it made her head spin, and she arched against him again.

Tipping her head forward, she pressed her lips to his shoulder, inhaling his essence, her tongue darting out to taste him; the salty-sweet tang of a man washed over her tongue in counterpoint to the honey and mint, and she found herself hungrily tasting, biting, licking her way across his chest and over his stomach as he leaned back again, giving her room to move. His hands slid up her back and over her shoulders, gentle and sure fingers gliding through her hair, gathering it up and away from her face as she rubbed her cheek over the hard muscles of his abdomen, her hands sliding over the soft black silk of the pants he wore. Maddeningly thin, they covered everything, but hid nothing, and she could feel the heat of him through them, as though he wore nothing at all.

Nuzzling at his stomach, she mumbled as she nipped at one of the ridges of muscle, “Maker, you smell good.”

“I do?” She was pleased that it sounded somewhat hoarse, his fingers tangling tighter in her hair.

“Hmmn...yeah,” she purred, tracing his bellybutton with her tongue, a hand rubbing the thick, silk-covered length of him. Glancing up through hazy eyes, she saw how flushed he was, his expression intense. “Don't play, you know you smell good,” she said, squeezing him hard in her hand. “You know you look good, too.”

His chuckle was liquid heat, his prick flexing under the silk and throbbing in her hand, “Ah, I know some find me attractive enough.” One of his hands left her hair, so he could take her hand and rub it over him, “It is nice to know that you are one of them.”

That reminded her of something.

Something important.

But what was it?

It was hard to think, touching him like she was, her head filled with haze. The Crow's grip was strong in her hair, urging her on, and then she remembered what it was she had to remember. Why she shouldn't be doing this. Not with him.

“Wait,” she said, shaking her head, trying to clear it. “We...we shouldn’t do this.”

A throaty groan came from Zevran, fingers untangling from her hair, stroking over her face. “And why not, my dear Warden?”

“‘Cuz...” She blinked, trying to hold on the “why.” It was near impossible, for he was curling over her, so he could kiss her again. She mumbled against his mouth, “‘Cuz it’d be...usin’ unfair...advantage.”

His tongue was in her mouth again, that insanely wonderful muscle, and despite the way her neck craned she really didn’t care to put up a fight.

As his mouth broke away from her, she muttered, “Dear Maker, you taste so good, and you smell so good,” she whispered, inhaling the potent mix of him like a drug. “Bronto shit, you feel good too.” She squeezed him in her hand, just to feel him jump and flex again, “What...why was I...objectin’?” A tongue sliding along her ear, tugging at the rings in them, silenced her last clear thought.

His hot breath was whispering in her ear, “I have not the foggiest clue.”

Well, neither did she. Giving up the struggle, Miolanai returned to licking his stomach, pushing him to lay flat, and tugging at his pants so she could see that pulsing member. A wave of fatigue swept her up, crashing and she just wanted to give his toned stomach one last nip before seeing what had been hiding in his pants.

Again, a flash of memory, and she paused before sinking down to take a look. “Wait! I ‘member. You...yer old and stuff.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I am not old!” Irritated, and slightly drunk, and far too aroused to deal with such impertinence, Zevran growled at her.

Her head was a pleasant weight, and the tight grip she held on him was just right, but she was taking too long, and she hadn't responded to his protest on her comment about his 'vast age'.

He tried to egg her on, “Come now, Miolanai, you are not the sort to play games with a man.”

Again, no response.

Frowning, he propped himself up on his elbows and started cursing. The Warden was passed out, face almost in his crotch, hand wrapped around his cock in a death grip. Letting out an undignified whimper, the Crow flopped back to the floor with a groan.

There was no arguing with a passed out person.

This also meant there was no sex to be had from a passed out person.

And he was hard.

Reaching down, he gave her shoulder a shake, “Wake up Warden.”

He got a snuffle for a reply.

“ _Mierda_ , wake up you Blighted woman!” he shook her shoulder again.

He was in a very definite bind, as he didn’t dare risk getting up and moving around, and if he didn’t want to wake up with balls that felt like swollen, over-ripe oranges with rocks for centers, he would have to, at the very least, piss. But he couldn’t get up and move around with the Warden sleeping. Then again, if she weren’t sleeping, then he wouldn’t have to worry, as he figured that it would require little work to have her impaled on him. 

Dear Maker, was he ever aroused. 

Miolanai wasn’t the best so far, but she was certainly passionate and had made a beeline for his cock rather than simply demand a good hard fuck, so that would mean she was at least decent. Not many of his partners had ever gone straight for him like that, so he was pleased with this, at least. 

Except it wasn’t going to do him any good right now when he needed it to.

Moaning, Zevran covered his face with his forearm. It seemed that there was no getting away from having sore testicles and sleeping on the floor. Perhaps in the morning, the Warden might be amenable to at least easing the pain in his groin. 

XXX

There was a cruel beating in his skull. It was rather similar to the Qun’ari cannon he had heard once, all heavy booming. Rubbing his forehead, the Crow cracked a lid and realized that Ember was sleeping partially draped on his chest, his little round head tucked under his chin, so his sleeping purrs resounded in Zevran’s head like thunderous booms. Groaning, the Crow gave his cat a push, waking the serval up, who gave him a happy chirp.

It sounded like glass breaking.

“Auck, Emi, Papi is tired, and you are too loud,” he hissed at the animal, squinting.

A puddle of drool on his stomach reminded him of why he was in so much pain at the moment, beyond the obvious hangover. Miolanai’s face was planted in his abdomen, one hand still clenched around his prick. Wincing, Zevran shifted slowly, only to stop when her hand flexed over him. He realized that the first thing he would have to do was remove her hand. Who knew how she would wake up? Well, he certainly didn’t, and he had no desire to be made a eunuch simply because some foolish woman had passed out in his lap, hand locked around him.

Carefully, he worked at her fingers, prying each off of him, until he was free. It was at this inopportune moment that the Warden chose to wake – him with his hand down his pants and a morning condition.

“Umf, whuu? Oh, what?!” Startling, eyes popping wide, the elf jerked away from him, “Maker, couldn’t you wait to do that until _after_ you were alone?!”

Her voice was a harsh ringing in his ears, and Zevran could only groan, “I was not doing anything, my dear, merely seeking to free myself from your vise-like grasp.”

“Bronto shit! You were gonna rub one out, right next to my _face_!” she accused. 

Sitting up slowly, the Crow rubbed his throbbing temples, “Tchk, believe what you wish.”

“Besides, how’d my face get in your lap like that?” warily, the woman inched away from him.

Rolling his eyes, he snorted, “Perhaps because you put it there?”

“I didn’t!” she argued, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Lolling his head back and forth until his neck cracked loudly, he sighed, “My dear, you put it there and did many other things besides.”

She was blessedly quiet for a moment before her face screwed up in memory, “Oh. Yeah, well, you seduced me.”

“I seduced you?” He laughed, “My dear, it was not I who jumped upon you as though you were a horse, ready to be ridden.”

Shifting his shoulders, he moaned when they popped. The floor was no fit place for a man to sleep, especially when there was the choice of a perfectly serviceable bed nearby. Lying back down, he pulled first one knee to his chest, then the other.

“Yeah, well you had the mint,” she said, somewhat petulantly, as though that was his fault.

Well, maybe it was, just a little, but it was _no_ excuse for her passing out and leaving him in such a state and then waking up in such a mood.

Feeling somewhat more normal, the Crow sat back up, pinning her with a look, “If you had merely asked politely, I would have willingly relinquished it.”

“I said please!” she retorted, lips pursing and standing up. She nudged him with a foot. “C’mon, old man, I wanna spar.”

“Tchk, no manners,” he growled. “If you had said ‘I would like that mint. Please, may I have it?’ like a normal, polite person, I would have handed over the mint with no fuss but, instead, you jumped on me and did much more than kiss me to claim it.” He held up a hand. “And no, I am not in the mood to spar. If you wish to spar, you can do it by yourself, for _I_ am going to go spar with my hand and gain some much needed relief.”

Attaining his feet, Zevran pushed both hands into the small of his back, leaning backwards until the knots loosened. With some minor satisfaction, he noted the way Miolanai’s eyes traveled over him, settling at the tent he was pitching, with more than a hint of want in her expression. It was poorly hidden, and further more amusing because of the attempt. It was as though she didn’t seem to realize she could have had exactly what they both wanted if she had been a little less obtuse. 

Scratching his stomach and adjusting himself in one pass, he smiled to himself as he walked towards his bathroom area. A little show hurt no one, and if it put the Warden at a bit of the same disadvantage she had put him, then it was worth it. Once he was hidden behind the screen he set to pleasuring himself, making sure to be as noisy as possible even while he heard her going to put on the armour he had returned to her yesterday. 

Taking a little more time than truly necessary, the Antivan drew it out, maintaining a series of low moans, a smile on his face when he heard her stop moving around so that she could listen. Once he was finished, he continued to make noise, wiping his hand clean on a towel. Feeling a little vindictive he decided to poke fun at how she had the temerity to say she should call him ‘papae’.

“Aie, Papi likes it like that,” he said, hoarse and low. “Yes, who is your Papi? Hmn? Oh yes!”

There was a startled gasp, and Zevran only just kept from laughing. _Take that you bitchy little minx! Two can play games._ He figured it served her right. It was good, if not exactly clean, fun.

Popping his head around the screen, he winked. “Oh yes, Papi likes that, you just know how to do it. Uhn...”

Miolanai’s eyes were wide, a hand on her mouth, her look a blend of horrified and amused.

Coming around the screen entirely he went to the kitchen, continuing his theatrics, letting out an entirely convincing whorish groan, “Uhn, yes, yes who is Papi’s naughty girl, eh?” 

Setting to making their breakfast, Zevran kept the game up. Even after he finally heard sputtering laughter and the thump of dropped weapons. Throwing a glance her way, he saw that the Warden had one fist shoved into her mouth, shoulders shaking as she was doubled over. Plating up the food, carrying it to his sitting area, he waved expansively at it, never letting up on his game.

“Oh, oh Maker stop! Please!” she begged, thumping her hand on her thigh repeatedly, tears streaming down her face.

He paused, speaking as though he had done nothing at all, “What? I am doing nothing at all.”

She practically stumbled onto one of his couches, flopping over on one side, curling up, “Bronto shit. You’re as innocent as a prostitute.”

“Ohhn, _yes_ who is a dirty little whore for Papi?” he asked, leaning forward and moaning at her.

Sputtering, the Warden thrashed on the couch, rolling off of it to land hard on the floor. “Please, please no more! Mercy! You’re gonna kill me with laughter!”

Settling back, Zevran poured himself a cup of coffee and began to eat. “Ah, that is not such a bad way to go. I hope that that is how I die, laughing and a sudden stop of my heart. Or, perhaps in a lovers’ embrace? Either way has much merit.”

Miolanai started to eat as well, only pausing when she went to pour her own coffee. “Hey...where’s the milk?”

Snorting, he gestured vaguely. “There is none. If you wish to have any, you would have to make it.”

“Why do I have the feelin’ that’s a dirty euphemism?” she eyed him warily.

“Because it is,” he retorted, unable to stop the smirk. “I am too tired to be patient today or in any mood other than the one I am currently in. It is something you will just have to deal with, my dear, as the fault lies mostly with you.”

“Oh, you’re just sayin’ that to make me feel guilty,” she said, grunting at him and shoveling eggs and vegetables into her mouth. “It ain’t gonna work, just so you know.”

“Tchk, you are a truly vicious woman, surely you know this, yes?” he responded, eating at a much slower pace. “You could take over all of Antiva and have it at your feet, such a cocktease you are. So cruel.”

XXX

The ill-effects of his hangover were washed away down the drain after his bath, the headache no longer throbbing in his skull, and the aches in his muscles gone as well. A good soak could revitalize a man in ways that not even a full night’s sleep in the finest bed could. He had taken the time to dress properly for the first time in days, his hair in a partial topknot, and his customary ropes of twisted locks clinking and chiming softly with the charms Zamitie had made for him over the years. Gold clasps dangled near the end of each rope, leather woven through the entirety, and he knew he looked like a wild horse-clansman. Pleased with the effect, he finished it off with the wide pantaloons the _Ga’hals Iunimasilsh_ cavalry wore, and a supple upper cuirass. His arms he left free but for the wrap he had not taken off in the Warden’s presence, even once. 

“Today we go to Zamitie for her to look you over,” he announced to Miolanai.

“What?” She jerked a glance at him, still in her own armour, “I think she put enough holes in me already.”

“Oh? And yesterday you were all set to get more.” Crossing his arms, tilting his head to one side, he rested his weight on one foot, “You think that is all there is to her?”

“No, not really,” she shrugged, the strange shimmering leather of her armor making a soft slithering noise. “There’s always more to an apostate than meets the eye.”

Waving a hand at the pack of clothes that had been left behind here at his flat, he said, “Change, and then we shall go and see just how much more there is, yes?”

The Warden grumbled, “I ain’t wanna wear another one of those outfits. I feel like I belong in a brothel every time I walk around like that.”

“Like I said before, no one would ever mistake you for a whore, my dear,” he assured her, twisting the words and tone so that it sound more like an insult that they wouldn’t. “Whores move gracefully, as they know their own bodies better than the finest rogue ever could, and they use that to their advantage. You,” he continued, waving his hand at her, “move as though you are wearing plate armour when you dress like a normal person, or like a man – a pretty man, true – with an enormous set and member hanging between his legs.”

Snorting she held out one of the intricately patterned red tunics to him, “Then let’s see how you move in this.”

“I know how I move and look dressed as a woman, and I am well aware of the fact that I look like a mannish woman,” he retorted, rummaging through the box of jewelry that Aedur had bought and selecting a wide, silver necklace and matching cuff bracelets, all inset with round garnets. “An overly handsome woman, but one who knows her body, at least.”

“Good. I can look like a pretty man in armour, and you can look like a mannishly handsome woman in a dress,” she said, as though this were perfectly reasonable, tossing the shirt onto his head.

Amused, Zevran tossed it back to her. “Some other time, perhaps. We go to Zamitie in our proper roles. She does not take kindly to the over-armoured in her presence.”

“You’re wearin’ armour,” she protested, rapping his chest. 

“It is good to be family and an exception to all rules.” Smirk growing wider, he deftly unlaced her armour one-handed before she could step away, “Now, go dress, and I shall carry your armour with us. Oh, and wear this,” he instructed, holding out the jewelry.

She frowned at it, “No. I’ll wear the getup if I have to but I’m not gonna make myself into a walkin’ target by wearin’ that much wealth.”

“You stand out far more when you do not wear it,” he said patiently, even as he reached out to hook the necklace around her throat. “Your skin is dark enough that so long as you do not speak, most will take you for Antivan, but only if you look the part.”

Nose crinkling, she removed the necklace, “No way. This thing’s too girly.”

He raised a brow, “Girly?”

“Girly. You may con me into that weird stuff, but I won’t wear somethin’ like that,” she said, her lip curling, holding it out between thumb and forefinger as though it were a dead rat.

Laughing he plucked it from her, putting it about his own throat, and added the bracelets to it, “It is perfectly typical. See? Even men can wear such.”

The Warden snorted indelicately, untying the rest of her armour, and plunked it on the sofa. “That’s not very manly at all.”

“Oh? And why not?” he cocked his head in confusion, unable to see what was wrong with how he looked - after all, the jewelry was rather unisex.

“Men don’t wear that kinda stuff in Ferelden,” she explained, going to his bathroom to change.

That elicited a snort from him this time, “Oh? Truly? Where did you say that this was? Antiva? Ah, that is correct. We are in Antiva, my dear Warden, not Ferelden. Your sense of geography is most superb.”

“Ugh, okay, fine, I get it. Yeah, you’re real manly, definitely a real Antivan man through and through,” the eye-roll was as audible as the rustling of cloth.

XXX 

Coming awake quickly, Zevran paused, assessing what had awoken him. There was a dissatisfied growl from Miolanai’s room and bare feet slapping on the floor. The night was muggy and hot, he had his window open and had kicked all but the silk sheet off, the composition of the material having the effect of wicking away the heat as well as his sweat. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he slid from his own bed, pulling on the pair of pants he always left nearby. 

He didn’t think that Miolanai would be very amused by his nudity. 

Making sure to use a heavy enough tread long before he got near his doorway, he called out, shortening her name as only a friend would, hoping to not startle her. “Mio? Is there something you need?”

“Umph, no,” it was more grunt than speech.

Coming around the screen, he noticed that, as usual she was dressed in rumpled leggings and tunic. Would she never learn to dress like a normal person and take into account the heat? Even in the dim light of a single oil lamp, he could see the fine sheen of sweat on her face, her white hair clumped on her head, and the baggy material clung in wet spots at her armpits.

Frowning, he leaned against the door frame, “What is wrong? Another nightmare?”

“Nah, just hot,” she panted, fanning herself with her shirt. 

“Then why not simply sleep nude?” he failed to understand why she was being so obstinate about using some kind of logic. 

The look she shot him was annoyed, “Some people don’t fight well naked.”

“Ah, paranoia. You expect some attack in the night, here? Of all places, this is the third safest for you in Antiva City.” Pushing away from the doorway, he went into his room, “Auck, foolish girl. This is a nest of Crows, and there are always sentries posted, all of whom are devoutly loyal to Ignacio. You would only be safer in my home or Zamitie’s. No one would dare to attack you there, for none would think of it, but here there are many defenses and defenders. You would have decent warning before any attack was made, in the strange instance one would occur.”

Digging in his armoire, he found a long shirt of his, made of silk as that was his preferred fabric for the very reason Miolanai was complaining of. It was easily donned, and its nature also meant that it would meld to flesh keeping cold skin warm, and warm skin cool. That, and it also felt splendid. 

Returning to her, he held it out. “Wear this if you must wear anything. It will help with the heat, and let your flesh breathe the way that wool cannot.”

“It won’t provide any protection,” she protested, not taking the shirt.

“And your tunic and trews do?” Reaching out to grab her arm, he pulled her closer, “Do not be so foolish. Wear this and your smallclothes if you must, but you will make yourself ill if you do not learn to cope with the heat and find ways to accommodate your body’s need with your natural inclinations.”

“What do you think you’re doin’?” she frowned deeply, but did not resist.

Tossing the tunic over his shoulder, the Antivan set to work on Miolanai’s clothing, pulling her shirt up, “Undressing you so that I may put this on you.”

Before she could step back fully, Zevran had yanked her shirt over her head, “Hey! I can dress myself just fine! I’m a big girl!”

Zevran grunted, ignoring her. The dim light didn’t afford him a good look, not that he had any particular urge to at the moment anyway, so he was brusque and swift in redressing the Warden. Dropping into a squat he pulled her trews and panties down to her feet, smacking one of her calves to get her to step away from the thick fabric. Once he was done, he stood again, smoothing his hands over the blue shirt, well satisfied that on her, it ran down to mid-thigh. 

Pulling on her, he made her step into his bedroom fully, “Come now, lay down. My sheets are silk as well, and you will rest better with such against your skin.”

With obvious reluctance she sat down, “Why ain’t my sheets silk, too?”

“Because I brought my own.” Sighing, he pushed on her shoulders, forcing her to scoot back and make room for him, “Tomorrow we can request different for you, but for tonight, you and I shall share. Just think, you can use me as a pillow again.”

She lay her head upon one of the pillows, sighing, “No, you put off too much heat.”

Zevran went and loosened the mosquito netting so that it would fall around the bed, “Ah, even so. Let us see what the morning brings then.”

Shoving his pants back down his legs before climbing into the bed, Zevran ignored Miolanai’s small huff. Just because she had to sleep clothed didn’t mean he had to as well. His sword was naked on the floor beside the bed, and a dagger sat glinting on his nightstand. He needed no more than that to be able to sleep secure in the knowledge of protection. Tugging the sheet over them, he rolled to face her little frown that he could just make out in the relative darkness of his room.

“You’re awfully comfortable in yer skin,” she said with a trace of envy.

“A side effect of growing up in a whorehouse, my dear,” he replied, bending his left arm under his pillow, raising it up to his preferred height. “Besides, this is my skin, and it is the only skin I have. Why should I not be comfortable in it? The Maker made us the way we are, and that is that. Why try and be any different, why lament having the flesh that we do, when there is nothing that can be done about it? It is best to accept ourselves in our entirety than to agonize over such minor matters. The body is beautiful in any case, and as natural as a tree or rock, despite what the Chantry says.”

Chewing her lip, Miolanai inched closer, “Would be nice to feel that way, I think, to believe that...but that ain’t how it is for me.”

Reaching out, he traced her jaw with his index finger, that thin spider’s web of scars that was only visible in good light and close up, “It can be if you wish it. You merely have to decide on that.”

“In Ferelden a woman, an _elven_ woman, ain’t given that kinda choice,” she said, sighing, and he realized that the silver ring in her eyes glowed faintly, even in the dark. He could only tell because when she closed her eyes the silvery flash was gone. “Yer body’s gotta be hidden so that _shems_ don’t notice you. Bein’ noticed for anythin’ is bad. If ya get too comfortable in yer skin, it’s too easy to forget what a target ya really are.”

“You could bundle yourself in furs, and anyone with eyes would notice you. It is best to learn how to hide in plain sight,” he countered, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek slowly.

Her skin was as soft as a peach, and even with the sweat drying on it, inviting. She wore no scent, no perfume but what her body made naturally, a light musk of woman, salt and sex that was intriguing in its own way. He would have to see about getting her some light oil to protect her flesh and maybe add a hint of something else in it. Nothing too powerful, for he found he rather liked the novelty of a woman who was not interested in covering her own smell with something powerful.

Her sigh was soft, and she inched a little closer, her eyes slipping open once more, “I’d really rather not do that. Yer version of hidin’ in plain sight winds up garnerin’ too much attention for my tastes. Didn’t you hear those idiots catcallin’ at me today?”

“Hmmn, here you will find it very different,” he said. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Those were not catcalls in the negative sense. Here, men lavish gifts and attention on that which is beautiful. It is how they show appreciation. Merely accept their words and gestures with a small smile and continue on. Anything more, and they take it as invitation to further conversation. Anything less is rude, and more likely to earn you rudeness from them if they see you again.”

“You don’t talk to me that way,” she pointed out.

His smile was sardonic, “And if I did, how would you react? Rather poorly, I imagine. It is a constant fight to not do so, as that is how I was raised. Frankly, I feel rather rude when I do not compliment you or praise your beauty and loveliness when it is warranted.”

“Beautiful now, is it?” she asked, with a small laugh of incredulity. 

Closing the distance between them, Zevran pushed one of his legs between hers, rubbing the flesh of her calf with his foot. “Surely you are at least slightly aware of your appearance? You jest, my dear, methinks.”

Her expression, what he could see of it, was serious, “I know that my appearance has made me a target, but it’s just as likely that it’s my ears that did it.”

“Tchk, no.” Wrapping his arm around her waist, he tugged her closer, so that he could feel the gentle curves of her against him. The barrier of his tunic was none at all, and it was like slippery skin moving over her form. “If I thought you would listen, I would tell you, often and loudly, how you look. I would call you _bonita_ for your beauty, and _mi diosa_ , for you are like a goddess amongst us poor earthly creatures. Perhaps I would call you _mi cielo_ for your sweet skin that reminds me of the sunlit sky.”

She snorted, “Yeah, right. You, ser, have a silver tongue. A rogue and a liar, you are.”

“No lie,” he averred, shaking his head, unsure if she could see it – but at least she would be able to tell from the way his pillow shifted. “You are lovely, otherwise you would not gain so many admirers when we go about. Even in armour, you gain a lion’s share of praise, even if it is tainted by confusion. Women are not meant to wear armour, but to be worshiped as the goddesses they are. Men who would be so ill-mannered as to harm a woman are generally frowned upon.”

“I ain’t sure I believe you,” she said, but at least he noted that there was some uncertainty. “Men are men anywhere you go, and they’ll do and say whatever they feel they gotta to get into yer skirts. Here they may use words rather than deeds, but it’s still the same shit. They get bored after they’ve used you, and leave you alone. For good or ill.”

“Tchk. So cynical, my Warden. Your experiences are not all that life has to offer. Not every man will so neatly fit into this box you have created for them.” Drawing her even nearer, so that his face was by hers, he murmured, “In this view of yours, there is no room for faithfulness, for care, for family or love. So narrow... What of your father? He never remarried after your mother’s death. I doubt he even took a lover once. Is this not dedication and love for one he had spent so much time with, that no other could replace her?”

Miolanai’s voice was harsh, “What you see from the outside as dedication, I can tell you for certain is cowardice. He ain’t never had a single drop of life to him that I’ve ever seen, even before Mom died. He’s always been a weak and cringin’ creature, allowin’ the _shems_ whatever they thought was their right. ‘Do not fight, just hide or it will be worse’. That’s his motto, and one that he tried to drive into me. Even when I tried to follow it, it didn’t help me at all.” 

Trying to use a different model, he said, “What of Alistair? He did not abandon...”

“Don’t even try that one,” she snapped, going stiff against him, so it was like he was holding nothing but a sword made of flesh and muscle. “Don’t _even_ try to say he didn’t abandon me, too.”

“My dear, I do not think he abandoned you,” he said gently, his voice going soft in the darkness, even to his own ears. “A Warden must die to kill an Archdemon. He died so that you could live. That is not abandonment in any way possible. It was the selfless act of someone who cared.”

“Then I really wish people who cared would quit dyin’,” she said, tucking her head into his neck. “Y’know what’s stupid, though? He didn’t hafta die. He coulda done the ritual with Morri. Sure, it woulda resulted in a baby with the soul of an Old God, but Morri is a good person. That baby woulda turned out okay, in her care.”

He blinked in confusion. “A...ritual?”

“Mph, yeah. She said a ritual that made a baby that had a spark of a Warden’s Taint in it, would be able to cancel out the Tainted soul of the Old God and make it clean.” Her breath was warm against his flesh, and some of the tension was bleeding away, “He didn’t hafta die. He chose to be stupid, and stubborn, and...and abandon me. He and Morrigan were all the family I really had left, and he had to go and be stupid, which drove Morri away, ‘cuz she said she couldn’t bear to watch what would happen. Would it have been so hard to just fuck her and be done with it? Then I coulda had both of them. I coulda had my family.”

Seeking to soothe her, he said, “Without loss, laughter and love have no meaning. It is hard, and painful, but if it were not, then that would mean that you had never cared at all, that they meant nothing to you.”

“Don’t be an idiot. I know what they meant to me. They ain’t hafta leave me alone,” she scoffed, her hands balling into tight fists.

“You are not alone,” he told her, reminding her with a gentle squeeze. “I am here, and that may not be much to you, but it is something,” he said, nuzzling his face into her hair. 

She sighed heavily, “Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.”

“No offense taken, my dear. You tend to speak your mind, and that is part of your charm. It is interesting to see someone so freely expressing an impolite opinion because that is what they are thinking, but absent any maliciousness. Here, you would certainly hear someone giving another a piece of their mind, but it is done in anger, not for artlessness.” He tried to reassure her in a way that he hoped would meet her needs, “You are, as I have said, a forthright person. You do not express yourself in a hateful way – angrily at times, certainly – but never hateful. It is a refreshing thing,” he said, kissing her temple in the hopes of softening any possibly negative implications.

Miolanai’s head tilted back, and she muttered, “You know what? You talk a lot.”

Unable to stop his snort, he replied, “Ah, but you speak so little. However, what you say is always very sharp, to the point. You say what is on your mind, and it always requires an answer post-haste. And I have found that if it is not a detailed answer, you become rather irritable. Or, well, _more_ irritable.”

Being the typically strange creature she was, she laughed. “Guess you’re right! But really...” Her laughter cut off abruptly. “I gotta know somethin’.”

“Oh?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Are you gonna hurry up and kiss me, or not? Because you’re warm and bein’ irritatingly tasty again,” she said, jabbing a finger in his sternum.

Chuckling a little and shaking his head, the Crow propped up enough so he could kiss her thoroughly. They were both breathless by the time he finished, but she was yawning, and he himself could do with some more comfortable sleep than the night before had gained him. At least she had actually wanted to be kissed and not denied that fact. It was a bit of progress. Their partnership would last until Ignacio told him otherwise, which would probably be sometime this side of never, for the Crow Master clearly had no desire to have him anywhere near his back. And so the natural progression of being in constant proximity would follow soon enough. The fact that Miolanai had given in this much was something to be pleased with. 

However, until the light of day came and her reactions were to be seen, Zevran would not count this as a true step forward.

That did not mean he didn’t enjoy the taste, weight and smell of woman. 

XXX

Sighing in contentment as he awoke, Zevran rubbed his hands over a silk covered hip, eyes closed. It was rare that he got the chance to wake up like this, as he didn’t make it a habit of sleeping with people, even non-marks. Making a pleased sound in the back of his throat, the Crow caressed the warm body that was snuggled up to him in long, slow strokes, enjoying the rare novelty of awakening not alone.

“Mmph, you shouldn’t do that,” mumbling into his neck, the Warden arched against him.

Shifting his hips forward to press his pleasantly aching morning erection to her silk encased stomach, he asked, “Hm? Why not?”

“B’cause it feels good,” the protest was not even remotely convincing.

Chuckling at her, Zevran repeated his actions, this time with more purpose. “That is not a very good reason for me to stop. It sounds more like one for me to continue, yes?”

“You really got a bad habit of bein’ tasty, you know that?” Her head rose off the pillow so she could pin him with a sleepy look, “You really should stop it.”

Zevran pretended to think about it a moment, “No. I do not feel like it. Besides, I wish to know if _you_ are as tasty as you claim me to be.”

There was no protest from her – not that he really gave her a moment to do so – as he sank a hand in her hair, tipping her head so that he could push his tongue between her plush lips. One admirably toned leg wound around his, bringing his thigh flush with her sex and the heat there, and he growled his appreciation at the fact that the shirt she wore had ridden up so he could feel strong bare thighs clamping around his. Short, trimmed nails scratched lightly down his shoulders to his back, the mild scraping tickling his nerves along the way. Together they rolled onto her back, so he could lay atop her, their bodies twisting tightly and rubbing. Slithering, skin-warmed silk rubbed against his chest, his nipples tightening along with the muscles of his lower back and stomach. Moving his mouth down to her neck, Zevran ran his palm along the underside of her thigh, raising her leg up to pull her flush against him with lazy hunger.

She let out a most satisfying gasp, arching under him, her eyes drifting closed as her head rolled to the side, baring her neck to him. He dragged his teeth lightly down the side of her neck as he had the day before, from behind her ear to the curve of her shoulder, and she shivered, her fingers tightening reflexively on his back. It was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. The Warden’s hips rolled upward, pressing against him as he continued across her collarbone, and he could not suppress his smile, nor did he even try to.

She began to wriggle, making impatient little sounds as he travelled further downward, his mouth beginning to cover territory masked by the silk, and she tugged at the hem of the tunic. “Mmmh...eh...too much fabric in the way...” she complained, and he laughed, low and throaty.

Propping his chin up on her breastbone a moment, he bared his teeth in a broad smile, “Ah, but that is part of the fun!”

Her brow furrowed. “Nooo... It...” she started to protest, but he angled his lips downward, simply allowing the heat of his breath to transfer through the silk and spread across her skin. Sucking in a quick breath, her eyes widened, pupils dilating, and before she could gather herself to speak again, he reversed his breathing, sucking quickly over that warm spot, chilling it just as fast. All that made Miolanai shiver and whimper, just a tiny little sound, but her eyes closed. 

Satisfied that his Warden was sufficiently speechless for just a few moments, he slowly continued his downward motion over her stomach, keeping her pinned in his gaze.

The marvelous thing about silk was how much it could transfer sensation, while still being slippery and clinging to flesh. Zevran wouldn’t call it a fetish of his, but he did have a fondness for it, and he was certain that the woman had never felt anything quite like it, if the way her fingers went to his hair and flexed against his skull were any indication at all. Rubbing deep circles into her sides with his hands, the Crow treated her to much the same as she had done to him during their drunken escapade – nipping, kissing and licking his way down. Unlike her though, _he_ would not leave her wanting. 

He was a rogue, not a cretin.

The moist and earthy funk of her arousal was thick and rich, bespeaking the lack of satisfaction she had had for what was most likely some time indeed. He pondered for a moment, as he continued teasing at her, circling the area that he could tell was aching and wet because of the sheer amount of heat she was throwing off from there; it had to be uncomfortable, what should he do, exactly? Should he go slow, build her up so that she crashed from improbable heights, or should he carry her up to a peak so fast that she fell screaming from the precipice, locked in an agony of ecstasy? Oh, there were so many ways to go about it.

Still caught in a web of indecision, Zevran pressed his tongue to the silk covering her sex, the fabric immediately soaking up the combined juices of his mouth and her arousal, warming so that it was not so much a barrier to sensation but a multiplier. Keeping one hand on the outside of the shirt, he slipped the other under the hem, stroking a thigh, lifting it so that Miolanai’s hips canted, granting him better access. Tracing along her slit and nuzzling at her sex so that it parted to him, even through the nominal barrier of fabric, heavy breathing paired with the sting of his hair being gripped hard, culminated in an intense sensory experience for him. The Warden’s taste was tangy and heavy with salt, a faint hint of bitter, and soft against his face as he lapped at her in long strokes of his tongue.

His focus narrowed down to Miolanai’s restless shifting on the bed, her hands in his hair, the little grinding bucks against his mouth, the smell and taste of her, the feel of each part of her he was touching until there was a deep gasp and she tensed under him, arching off the bed before crashing back down. He gave her flower a few more last swipes before slithering back up her body.

“Mn, I do believe I must say that you _are_ quite delectable, yourself,” he murmured, running the pad of his thumb across her lower lip.

Legs wrapped around his hips, yanking him in tight, “Still talk too much. We should just get down to it already.”

Flinching, Zevran was incredulous. He knew she was rather blunt, but this was beyond the call of acceptable. “Oh. That is...tactful. And romantic. Shall I grunt and growl like a bull, as well, when I act like little more than a rutting animal?” he scoffed. “My dear, I am a man, not an animal, and do not simply ‘fuck’ on call.”

Miolanai’s expression went dark, and she pushed him away, shooting off the bed quickly, “Fine.”

Frowning in confusion, the Antivan sat up, watching her leave his room. He almost expected her to stomp like an angry child, but there was something off in her demeanor, as though he had been the one to be offensive. True, yes, it was very true that Miolanai was quite rough around the edges. That didn’t mean he had to put up with being treated as though he were a back-alley whore, ready to do whatever was requested with nothing more than a snap of fingers. Flopping backwards, rubbing his temples hard, trying to massage away the instant headache, Zevran had to lock his jaw to keep from cursing.

A moment later he lifted his head, cocking it to hear better. If he wasn’t mistaken, he heard one of the Warden’s trunks being opened and the sound of armor being pulled from it and put on. Shaking his head in aggravation, Zevran climbed from the bed, as usual tugging on the pants he left on the floor. 

Pausing in the doorway to her room, he said, “If you intend to go out, give me but a moment to dress.”

Miolanai shot him a glance that was blank at best, veiled distaste at worst, “Stay here.”

Raising his brows, he straightened, arms falling from where they had been crossed, “Excuse me?”

“I said ‘stay here’,” she repeated, stomping her boot on to situate it. “I ain’t need you taggin’ along.”

Putting his hand out, he tried to stop her as she attempted to leave the bedroom, “I am sorry my Warden, but you cannot go anywhere without me. That is my purpose. I am your bodyguard and guide.”

“Step aside, Crow.” Miolanai’s expression was a hard thing – not angry, not irritated or hurt, not any particular emotion he could describe. “I got needs that gotta be met, and I am gonna go meet them. You ain’t gotta bother followin’. I can take care of myself just fine.”

Pursing his lips Zevran shook his head firmly, “That I cannot do.”

“Fine.” Yet another monosyllabic answer. 

Thinking that was the end of it, Zevran was unprepared for the fist that slammed itself into his jaw. The last thing he noticed was that he thought the fact that a small, ungauntleted fist was capable of that much force was rather strange. And then the floor rushed up to meet him.

XXX

His jaw hurt. Badly. Very badly. Eyes scrunched shut, Zevran reached up and touched the tender spot and winced as he hissed in pain. 

“ _¡Braska!_ Where did that Templar with the foul temper and the large shield go?” Groaning he swayed toward sitting up. “I swear I shall kill him. Slowly.” Rubbing his throbbing jaw, Zevran squinted, looking around in confusion. “Ah, Miolanai? Warden? Mio?! Where are...oh.” Realization hit, along with memory at the same time. “Oh, that is just splendid. Fine, fine, hit the dutiful bodyguard slave. Go find the 'mistress'.” Standing up, he made his way back to his room, muttering and cursing. “I should kill Ignacio for this, just on principle."

Dressed in his armour quickly, Zevran had to brace himself for what would come next. He would have to ask one of the Crow sentries if they had seen which way the Warden had gone, and that would mean admitting he had failed in his duties, at least in part.

Thankfully, a Crow was waiting for him in the hallway and informed him of where the Warden had been guided to by one of the others that worked in the area. That at least cut down some of his embarrassment, and it meant that the others in the rotation from Ignacio’s cell were watching out for the Warden. So at least she was going to a known place, with a shadow backup.

It took too long for his tastes to arrive at the brothel Ignacio owned, but Zevran had taken the rooftop route rather than streets. No one seemed surprised to see him, and he was quickly shown into one of the rooms – wedged between the whore-bunks – that was meant to be a surveillance room. Not much larger than a closet, it held the reflection from a series of mirrors that bounced and reversed off of an angled one in the whore’s room, granting a somewhat skewed view of what was happening on the other side of the wall. At least it was more comfortable than trying to watch through a peephole. 

Taking a seat, Zevran watched the Warden in her act with the Crow she had selected and winced, because what was happening was not sex or lovemaking or anything other than pure animal rutting, without passion or purpose. She was sitting astride the hapless man just...riding him as though he were a horse, and from the amount of noise – which was basically none – that he heard through the wall, neither was having much fun. 

Sighing, he found himself unable to look away, shaking his head and wincing in sympathy, whether for Miolanai or the man she was with, he wasn’t sure. Probably both, in equal measure. 

Behind him, the door opened. “Zevran, why is it that I have word that the Warden is here?”

Not turning to look at Ignacio, he replied, “Because she decided that this was more to her tastes.” He winced when he realized it had been almost a quarter hour that he had been here, and Miolanai and the whore had yet to change positions.

Or make more sound.

“Oh? Is that so? And could you tell me why it is she showed up unescorted?” Velvet-covered steel was in the Crow Master’s voice. 

Waving a hand at his face, Zevran retorted, “Because she hit me.”

Ignacio grunted, the very picture of displeased, “And that makes very little sense, whoreson, seeing as I understood that to be one of the activities you did not mind.”

“Mph, no. She _hit_ me, hit me.” Snorting, he leaned forward, squinting at Miolanai as she continued onwards, “Hard enough that I shall have to have it seen to, most likely. At least two of my teeth are loose,” he explained, turning his face just enough to display the blooming bruise along his cheek and jaw, without looking away from the image in the mirror.

“ _¡Braska!_ My, my.” The older Crow came closer and probed at Zevran’s sore face, “She does indeed pack a punch. However, it still should be you that she is doing this with, not one of the others.”

Jaw dropping, Zevran felt his eyes growing wider as the Warden’s merciless pace picked up, and he gestured with both hands at the mirror. “Have you _seen_ what she is doing?! She does not need a man, she needs a zucchini!”

“Ah no, I have not.” Zevran could tell when Ignacio had actually looked at the mirror, for he started cursing. “ _¡Braska! ¿Qué hostias haces?_ She is an animal!”

Snorting again as he leaned back in the chair, Zevran replied, “That is what _I_ said. Pfah, he will be no good to you for days if she keeps this up. I suggest calling in a healer, he will need it.”

“You must break her of this bad habit.” Strangely, it sounded more like a request than a direct order.

Finally prying his eyes away long enough to slide a glance at Ignacio, he saw that the pasty man was far too white with shock. For a second, Zevran wondered if there might be some issue with the _shemlen’s_ heart, because he looked like he was in agony. A very odd expression for a Crow Master to have on his face, when it was not an act.

Pursing his lips, he spoke to the mirror and the Warden’s image more than Ignacio. “I have every intention of doing so.”

XXX


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been slacking. I'm horrible, I know. Mea culpa.

XXX  
Guild-ed 9  
XXX

Her head hurt. So did her joints. Everything ached. And she was so hot. It was a dull, sucking pain that wouldn’t go away, no matter how she rolled on the bed or kicked her sheets aside. No matter that she had given up and stripped down to just her skin. Nothing helped. It had started a day or two after her trip to Spearshakers brothel, and now all she could do was curl up and sleep. Her mind was foggy, and every time Zevran had called to her through her door, she told him to go away. She had been feeling like this perhaps a day or so. She wasn’t thirsty or hungry, never mind the fact that when she fell asleep, somehow the Crow would enter and put a fresh pitcher of water on the floor beside the bed. Since she remembered drinking fresh water more than once, that meant that the impossible had happened – someone had snuck in while she slept. But right now she couldn’t be arsed to care. Leaning over the bed she made herself drink deeply even though she didn’t want to.

She was still angry with him, calling her an “animal” like that, and when she had been done seeing to her needs, he had been leaning against the wall by the door, waiting. For a moment she had felt bad about the massive bruise on his face; however, that vanished when she caught sight of his carefully bland expression. She knew a mask for disgust when she saw one.

Dragging a hand over her cheek Miolanai sighed. There was nothing for it, though. She was sick and tired of the strange looks the Crow had given her. And again his voice was echoing through the door, asking if there was anything she needed.

“If ya open that door, I’m gonna sock ya a good one again!” she threatened in her hoarse voice.

The door didn’t open, but she could hear him leaning against it. “Then perhaps you should open it, Warden. You have not eaten in two days.”

Two days? Had it really been that long? Staring at the blue ceiling, Miolanai squirmed on the bed. Her skin was gummy and felt salt dry at the same time. Snagging the sheet from where it had fallen partially on the floor, she dragged it around herself like a cloak. It was an effort of will to crawl from the bed and stagger to the door.

Opening it just a crack, she glared at him balefully. “Whatcha want?”

A small tray was in his hands, and he raised it enough for her to see it. “My dear Warden, you need to eat. I had the kitchen make a soup for you. I assure you it is quite tasty.”

She glanced at the tray, then back up to him; the lines around his mouth and eyes seemed a little more pronounced than usual. “Don’t want it. Lemme alone.”

“Please?” If she didn’t think he was so disgusted with her, Miolanai might almost think she heard a hint of worry in the request. “You need something more than water.”

Growling under her breath, she opened the door and stalked back to the bed, landing on it heavily. The Antivan followed her and sat on the bed near her, setting the tray aside. Garlic and onions were a strong overlay that she could taste, if not quite smell, as her nose had quit working at some point.

The weight of a calloused hand brushing her forehead made her flinch, since she had forgotten to keep her eyes open. “Don’t touch me.”

“I am attempting to take your temperature,” he explained, the tone patient and low. “Tell me how you feel; I will be better able to treat your illness, if only you let me.”

“I’ll live.” Grunting at him, she tugged the edges of the sheet up to her chin and rolled into a ball. “Just let me be.”

Those full lips that she had thought so soft and inviting not so long ago, pulled into a small frown. “I am trying to help you, Miolanai. Nothing more. You need not suffer this too long if you follow my instruction.” She was presented with a steaming mug. “Drink this at the least, if you do nothing else. It has garlic to ward off ill humours and other things to strengthen the body so that it can purge itself of the fever.”

She eyed it warily. “Not hungry. Don’t want it. Just...go away. I don’t care where. Just...go.”

He bumped the mug against her fingers where they clutched the sheet around her bare body. “I will not, until you drink this. If you drink this and you still wish me to leave your room, I shall.”

Closing her eyes in frustration, the elf snatched the cup from him as she propped up on an elbow. “Fine. Whatever. But you hafta promise you’ll go.”

He gave a slight nod, gaze dropping, and a half bow. “Your wish, then.”

Not trusting him, but willing to risk it so long as it would make him go away, she drank the contents of the mug. He had been truthful when he said there was garlic in it, as that was the most dominant flavour, but there were the onions and chicken, as well as rice in the mix. And some other vegetables she didn’t know the name of. Most of it was in small bits so she didn’t need to chew too much, at least; however, it was still a fight to down the contents.

“Done. Now go,” she muttered, shoving the mug at him.

“I shall leave the tea then,” he said, taking the glazed brown cup from her and trading it for a different one. “It will help you rest and get over this more quickly.”

Before she could tell him she didn’t want his stupid tea, he was gone, her door clicking closed behind him. Heaving a sigh, Miolanai sat the rest of the way up, draining the tea anyway. Its taste was pungent with something that put her in mind vaguely of eating watery dirt, but dirt didn’t taste all that good. The tea did. Setting the mug down on the floor she curled back up in her little ball of misery.

XXX

“Miolanai?” Her door creaked, and she opened an eye to see Zevran poking his head through the crack.

“Go ‘way.” 

She felt worse. More tired. All she wanted was to sleep and to be left alone. Was that so difficult to understand?

True to form, the Crow ignored her, slipping into her room and to her bedside, his hand touching her forehead again. “Tchk. Your fever has not quite broken, and you smell like a wet dog that has crawled through a latrine.”

Swatting weakly at his hand, she growled, “Go ‘way, you soddin’ nuglicker.”

“No,” was all she had time to hear before her world dipped as she was hoisted up like a child. “You are going to have a bath. You are filthy with spoiled sweat. You will only become more ill if you do not get clean. Also, it will make you feel better.”

Pushing at his shoulders, Miolanai tried to make him put her down, “Lemme go!”

Infuriatingly, he ignored her, and Miolanai went limp, not really sure she had the will to care. Into the extravagant bathroom he carried her and sat her on the edge of the tub. With one hand he held her propped up, and the other he used to turn the faucets. Once he seemed satisfied with that, he stood her up and stripped away her sheet.

And then his eyes went wide.

And under his deep, naturally bronze skin he went pale.

Miolanai pursed her lips, locking her jaw as she ground out, “What?”

Warmth radiated from his broad palm where it hovered over her abdomen, “What could have done this?”

“Archdemon,” she said, shrugging, tearing her gaze away from his shocked expression. “Or that high dragon that some idiots called ‘Andraste’. Flemeth maybe. Dunno, don’t remember which, got chomped by’um all. Don’t care.”

There were broad, ugly scars all over her skin. This Miolanai knew. Generally she had a tendency to forget about them, only rarely looking at them or noticing the fact that ropes of scar tissue twisted around her torso. The web on her arms and legs had faded from repeated healing over the years, but nothing Anders or Wynne could do would remove the dips and gouges and raised patches from fire, poisoned blades and arrows, electricity, frostbite, and the huge, massive teeth that had crushed through her armour into her body. It was partially why she had avoided wearing some of the lighter things Zevran had kept shoving at her.

Gathering her pride around her, Miolanai drew herself up, raising her chin, “Not everyone had the luxury of restin’ in between healin’s, or facin’ nothin’ more devastatin’ than men and their two legged dangers.”

“No, no, I...suppose not,” a strangely sympathetic expression flitted over his features. Gentle fingers traced a bite mark on her hip, the Warden wasn’t sure, but she thought that might be the one she got that resulted in a partially crushed hip. The hip that she had forced to bear her weight as she continued fighting. “This is a most impressive collection.”

“Well, I showed you mine, may as well show me yours,” she said, grunting at him as she struggled to clamber into the bath on her own.

Zevran’s strong grip guided her in, and once she was seated he went to the small cabinet under the sink. “I have few that are borne anywhere outside of my memory. Zamitie knows her business and her skills. Before she sold herself into slavery she was her horseclan’s, ah...witch? No, ‘shaman’ I would suppose would be the closest word to use. Advisor and healer. Her life was not her own, but belonged to the service of her clan.” He returned, unstopping a glass bottle, and poured a stream of the liquid under the water’s rushing. “She is not so powerful as, say, a Circle-trained mage or one of the Dalish, but the _Ga’hals Iunimasilsh_ , they have their own magics, yes?”

Miolanai didn’t know anything about the horseclans he spoke of, but right now she still didn’t particularly care. Hot water was lapping at her, and the cold tile of the bath bit harshly at her skin, while the wooden slatted seat on the tub’s floor dug into her bottom. Mostly she tended to like sensations; however, everything was sensitized and throbbing uncomfortably.

She supposed he took her silence for a request to continue, as he did just that. “They have no need for the Chantry, but pay nominal respect to it, so that the great jealous beast does not turn its hungry eyes towards them. At puberty, it is customary for a child to receive their horse, who is to be their brother or sister until it dies. Some say they are born in the saddle, but truly it is more that they are born to the saddle.” Through slitted eyes she watched him peel his clothes off and toss them to the side, before stepping into the tub with her. “It is believed that their horses originally were birthed from lightning and siroccos, then given thought and will. Nowhere else are there horses such as they, and even their poorest-built beasts fetch astronomical prices for those who are not of the clans.”

“What’er you doin’?” she grumped at him as he sat down beside her. “I’m not a child, can wash m’self.”

His grunt was eloquent. “You have been drifting in and out of consciousness, and the bath is large. My dear, you would certainly drown if left to your own devices.” Some pungent salve that she could taste in the back of her throat was scooped from a jar, and he took one of her arms, rubbing the stuff on her. “I am merely being expedient and doing this for you. Please, just relax and allow me to do this, and it will be done quickly. Then I shall empty the bath and refill it fresh, and you may let yourself be at ease. You are in good hands.”

Giving up, Miolanai let him do as he willed. There was a little scooting and splashing as the water sloshed in the tub when he moved to wash her legs. It was about then that she noticed she could breathe through her nose again and realized whatever the salve was that he had been using smelled much like he did. Making a face, she wiggled, scooping some water up to try and scrub the smell from the arm he had set to first.

“Do not worry, my dear, I will get to that shortly,” he murmured softly, “the soap has to sit a bit for it to work correctly.”

Wrinkling her nose, she protested, “It’s not soap. It’s perfume or somethin’.”

The look he cast her was sardonic. “It is soap.”

“Smells funny,” she complained, letting her arms flop back to the water. “Smells like you. Don’t wanna smell like you.”

“Yes, well, it was this or use that saddlesoap you have, and there is no way I would use that on anything living,” he replied, snorting. “Your flesh is far too tender to use such, and so we use what I have. Some other time we can get you something that you find more fitting to your palate.”

“Soap’s soap,” she muttered, shifting uncomfortably when his hands swept over her breasts before gliding over her ribs to her back. He pulled her into his chest, smearing more of the paste-like soap down her spine and massaging it into her shoulders. “Don’t need ta be fancy.”

She found him tucking her head onto his shoulder as he knelt between her thighs, and the motion of his jaw as he spoke distracted her from his words momentarily. “The weather here is hard on a body. Skin can age quickly or burn or merely become uncomfortable due to the exposure. We have all learned to excel at ways of protecting ourselves.” Closing her eyes, Miolanai allowed herself to drift, however briefly, in the hypnotic burr of his voice. “What you consider ‘fancy’ is merely the thing that actually keeps our skin healthy. Would you deny yourself foods that kept you energetic and full, simply because they were not what you were used to?”

Zevran’s question was rhetorical, yet she could tell he wanted an answer, “‘Course not.”

“This is the same.” He lifted her hips and she felt him touching her where she really didn’t feel like having him, but his hands were clinical and impersonal. “The products I use may bear a scent, yet many of the things that guard my flesh from the extremes of the climate have a perfume of their own. It is this that causes the heavy scenting you call ‘fancy’, not something added merely for its smell alone.”

A soft square of cloth was being scrubbed over her, its texture rough and familiar. “Drake scales.”

“Pardon?” The sharpness of his eyes intensified when he looked at her.

“Drake scales. They’re pretty, but they make good armour,” she said, shrugging at him. “S’like drake scales, just because it’s pretty don’t mean it ain’t got a purpose.”

That half-pleased, half-amused smirk that graced his face reminded the Warden of why she didn’t want to be around him. “Exactly. Everything you see in Antiva has many uses. Beauty is valued, but beauty without function is near useless, and, eventually, very easily forgotten once its novelty fades.”

Once she was scrubbed until she felt like she was about to turn pink, the Crow moved to a jar of some other unguent which he worked into her hair. The motion of his fingers massaging her scalp was enough to make her sigh in contentment. Miolanai hadn’t realized how bad her head hurt until the ache receded under the treatment she was getting. Sighing she let herself fully relax, rather than fight how pleasant it was to be this little bit of pampered. Under any other circumstance if someone tried to wash her, the Warden would have ripped their arm off, beaten them with it, then hogtied them in some public place. Quite literally. Unless she was under a healer’s care or paying a whore, she didn’t want people touching her like this.

She was the “Hero of Ferelden”, dammit, and that meant she had no room to be soft like this, to be taken care of. Heroes take care of others, not vice versa. _But this one time is nice...I can have it once, right? Just once._

“Hmmn, I believe it is time for a good rinse,” the assassin murmured, as through slitted lids she watched him grab the bowl perched on a corner of the tub for that very use.

Water was scooped up in the bowl, and then trickled over her head, and Miolanai held her breath as he poured the warm water over her, his other hand working itself through her hair. More bowls of water were dumped over her, along with more one-handed rubbing to remove the residue. And then she heard the plug pulled and the water, as the fluid gurgled to itself, sucked down the drain.

Straightening up, she thought he was finished with her. “Mph, okay. Clean now.”

“Clean but not soothed,” he corrected, turning the handles once more and putting the stopper back in. “A bath is not complete without relaxation,” he said, holding up a bottle and gesturing with it. “Your skin has already darkened some on face and hands, as well as a few other parts.” He poured some of the liquid into his palms, rubbing them together, “This will keep you from peeling and also prevent your flesh from becoming too dry.” She flinched back at the touch of a finger running down the side of her neck, “Which it already is, so you need this quite a bit.”

Frowning at him, she huffed, “Fine, hurry up then. I want this over with.”

“Tchk, my dear, you are always so tense. A moment ago you were relaxed.” The humidity of the bath had caused his hair to darken with moisture, and a strand of it clung to his neck, while another curled against his cheek, reminding her of a golden, male version of the Lady. “Must you always fight _everything_? You come to Antiva looking for direction and for peace, and yet you struggle to stay exactly as you were. Did you not come here for a change? For the very reason of not wishing to be as you were in Ferelden?”

“You said no one can ‘fill my cup’ but me,” she grunted, poking him in the shoulder. “And then you go on to tell me what to do, what to wear, how to act. Bit hypocritical, don’tcha think?”

Slick hands stroked the oil, or whatever it was, over her neck and shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles into her skin. “Perhaps, but I do not tell you what to do, ultimately. I can only suggest, as I have said. Whether you follow what I say is up to you. However, you are uncomfortable and suffer when you go on in your usual manner.” More oil was spread over her, down to her breasts and stomach, as he leaned in close. “My job is to ensure you are safe and well taken care of, and to that end I strive. I am no healer of body, nor am I one of mind, but what I can do is hold your hand and help you learn the steps to your own redemption. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Don’t need rescuin’, don’t need redemption,” she muttered, struggling to not arch into his hands when they made another pass over her chest.

“Then what do you need, my Warden, hmm?” he asked, kneading at her hips, and then down her thighs; the rapidly rising water of the refilling tub lapped over her legs. “Whatever it is, my purpose is to see to it.”

Biting her lip, Miolanai looked away from him, fixing her gaze on the wash sink. “Find a purpose for yourself. I don’t need a servant or a slave. Stop actin’ like you’re mine, and then tellin’ me what to do.”

One of her feet was picked up for the same treatment he had given the rest of her. “You forget, I do belong to you, for all intents and purposes. I was born a slave, and I shall die one. It is something I’m comfortable with, Mio. I am even content with it. I have learned to live within my bonds and found a freedom in it that is not uncertain.” The tendons in her foot loosened under the press and pull of his fingers against it. “Because I can be trusted to do my duty and always return, because my loyalty is to the Guild and Antiva itself, I have more freedom than most. I can come and go as I please, so long as I am available for my assignments and contracts. I have a home, I have possessions, and I have family, if not many friends. But what I have most of all is peace. I know who and what I am, Miolanai. It is a gift that comes with time and with patience. There are instances where rushing is good. There are times when slowing down is also good. To live in the moment and to live for the future in the same breath.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t like you,” she grunted, crossing her arms and slouching in the tub. “I’m like me. It’s all I know.”

The Crow finished and sat beside her, draping his arms around the lip of the tub, “But is it all you want?”

Tipping her head back, Miolanai found herself slumping towards him, her head pillowed on his bicep. “Dunno.”

She was surprised by the companionable way Zevran curled his arm around her shoulders, tucking her in close to his side. “That is something you will figure out eventually. Many never do find out, many never really notice that they are unsure of who or what they are, or what they need and want.”

“Seems like I don’t got a choice for it though,” she said, staring down at his foot which he was rotating on his ankle under the water. “May say I have choice, but there really isn’t anythin’ great about muddlin’ through, huh? So winds up like I don’t have a choice anyways.”

The heat of the water, being clean, and the gentle rise and fall of Zevran’s chest began to lull her to sleep, with his steady heartbeat adding its own lullaby. It was easy to get lost in the rhythm and forget the fact that this man, whom she for some reason respected, had been disgusted with her. Miolanai wouldn’t mind him being irritated with her for fighting or getting on his nerves – that was fun – but she could not wipe the memory of his voice saying ‘animal’ in conjunction with her, with such disdain, such dripping mockery. And then came the last straw; his waiting form in the hallway making it obvious he knew every single thing she had done at Spearshakers and found it lacking. Found her lacking.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, the knuckle of his thumb brushing over her cheekbone.

Fuzzily, Miolanai yawned, “Hurt still. Otherwise, good ‘nough.”

“Ah, I can help with the pain,” he said, and she felt him begin to shift, turning towards her more, a hand rubbing her stomach firmly.

“Mmmn...whu?” she asked, a moan that turned to an uncertain mutter when his hand brushed over her hip and thigh, skirting dangerously close to her sex. Fighting off her languor, she looked up at him suspiciously. “What’re you doin’?”

The touch remained light, verging on ticklish, “It will help with the pain, shh, relax. You will feel much better, Mio.”

The memory of his tongue on her, his lips, the way his hands had rubbed over her, argued strongly for relinquishing herself to his care. And if it could make her ache a little less, that also told her to give in. But...still she felt hesitant, uncertain, like she was being offered a service rather than anything else. So what if she had no problem bedding whores – that was what they did for a living – but this was different; he was no whore. He was practically a slave to her, a fact which he had been reminding her of more and more lately.

She grabbed his wrist as his hand sank lower, shaking her head. “Nooo...no more.”

“And why not?” he asked, not resisting her hold, but not pulling away either. “You should not be in pain; you have had enough of that, I think. Even if this only lessens the ache, my dear, it is better to have it hurt less than to suffer more.”

“You keep remindin’ me that you’re a slave, but you’re not a whore, so stop actin’ like one. I don’t need to be serviced. I’m sick, not wounded. Just...leave me alone. I’ll sit in here with the hot water and feel better all by myself.” She shifted away, trying to dislodge him.

He wouldn’t let her go though, tugging her closer, and she found that she didn’t quite have the strength to resist him like she knew she should. “Hush, Mio, think of it as a healer’s actions, if you must, for that is what they are, and not something you are forcing me to do. It is something I am offering and willing to give.”

That didn’t silence her argument, but the feel of his tongue dragging along her ear tugging at the hoops there, did. Unable to keep the moan in check, it came out low, and her hand flexed around his wrist, no longer seeking to stop him. Miolanai parted her thighs unbidden when he stroked over her mound once more, giving in to the sensation of his fingers giving her thatch a soft, teasing tug. Her shoulder was pressed into his chest in this position, and she felt his lips against her ear, nuzzling at the cartilage while he drew a long digit up and down her seam. The Warden groaned quietly, arching into his hand, urging him on.

“Hmm,” he murmured, his tongue flicking her lobe, sending a shiver through her, as it felt good. None of her bedmates had ever actually touched her ears before. “How do you like it? Here?” he asked, and she felt him press his finger to her entrance. “Or here?” His fingers circled her pearl.

Actually, she wasn’t really sure. No one had done this for her before. Miolanai usually just rubbed frantically at her tender flesh to work herself to completion. That is, if she bothered at all to seek it. Under most circumstances she would just use the frustration as something to fuel her battle frenzy or her ability to intimidate uppity fools. But having someone else touch her was different, and her sex ached more intensely from the sensation of someone else’s hand than from her own. One or two of the women she had been with had attempted to do this, but she had never let them, uncomfortable with the prospect of receiving. Certainly she could give to a woman, but taking felt...strange. Wrong. Greedy.

In fact it still felt greedy, if not quite wrong, but men were for taking. She took men; they never took her. Women were for softness and sweet caresses; men were nothing more than animals to use until she was finished.

Swallowing, Miolanai shook her head and croaked, “Dunno.”

Zevran’s fingers skated along her ridge, eliciting another moan. “Ah, well then, I can work with that. Perhaps we shall learn together what it is you like?”

Biting her lip the Warden slumped against him completely, parting her legs further so he had better access for...whatever it was he decided was the best route. Two fingers slid between her lips, framing her pearl but not actually touching it, massaging just outside the confines of the places she would normally just go for. Somehow, this was much different and afforded much more sensation than what she usually did, and she shuddered against him, suddenly letting out a sharp exhale. Beside her, Zevran made a pleased sound at her response and then his middle finger was dipping into her, while his thumb stroked around and over her nubbin. With a sigh, Miolanai reached out, wrapping her arm around his upper arm, closing her eyes so that she could relish the way this felt.

When a finger hooked inside her channel, rubbing in time to the caresses of thumb along her clit, the Warden let out a strangled whimper. Gentle lapping warmth coiled behind her pubic bone and spread up and outwards with each passing moment. There were soft words urging her along with the touch of dexterous fingers that continued to pull her to completion. She would have to remember how he did this and try it herself sometime, because the difference was like night and day. Curling forward when she was carried over the edge, the scintillating light-show was like a cascade that went through her from head to toe, but the sensation of going into free-fall was not there. Instead she was buoyed and floated in a haze, until she settled.

By the time she opened her eyes, the water had been drained, and she was still pressed to Zevran’s chest. She didn’t say anything to him as he helped her stand and climb from the tub or when he began drying her off, a towel wrapped around his hips his only concession to drying himself off, or when he scooped her into his arms again. Miolanai wasn’t sure why she didn’t protest when he took her to his room and put her in his bed, but really she was too tired. Just...too tired. And it wasn’t entirely the malaise’s fault.

“I am going to go change your bedding and air out your room,” he murmured, a hand on her forehead. Zevran’s voice was low, hypnotic.

Turning her face from him, Miolanai grunted, “Fine.”

XXX

She still felt wrung out, but mostly better. Zevran had hired what he called a ‘palkhi’ – some sort of litter – the day after he had veritably tossed her in the bath, to transport her to his apartment while he walked beside it, impressively armed to the teeth. Miolanai hadn’t bothered protesting, just wanting it all over with. The last few days he had pushed teas and soups on her; even when she found the gumption to try and bat away his nattering hen-like mothering, he still would press.

But today he was dragging her outside again, deeming her fit enough for a walk in spite of the fact that all she wanted to do was sleep some more. The familiar red door hove into view, and she knew where they were going, but not the reason. Last time she had been drug off to see Zamitie, it was for tea and cookies, along with a light meal, while she was probed with questions. Today would probably be more of the same. However, Miolanai actually liked Zamitie, and she could admit to the fact that she saw a very common thread in personality between the witch and the Crow who walked beside her. She assumed he was dressed as a ‘horseclansman’ again, for he jingled and chimed softly as he strode. The partial top-knot allowed his hair to slither and twine in the breeze generated, and he wore some black, soft knee-boots that even had charms on them as well. From head to toe, he was adorned with little twists of metal, bone or stone beads, and strips of leather.

People cast them both glances, many of them smiling in a friendly manner, which she thought she was supposed to return. Every now and again a man or woman who passed close to them would murmur _bonita_ or _guapa_ at her, and she had to suppress her instinctual hiss and tip her head in acknowledgement instead. With a start, Miolanai realized that she was almost in the habit of responding in what Zevran had said was the polite manner, already. Only a few weeks in Antiva and she was picking up that small mannerism, changing to conform, when she had never willingly conformed to what anyone wanted her to be. Yet, for some weird reason, it seemed...almost...worth it. Worth it for the smiles and the way people relaxed, no hint of hostility or fear in their faces when they looked at her.

The warmth of the people matched the climate in an odd way, finally prompting her to ask, “Why does everyone smile?”

“Antiva’s arable land, and thus, its settlements are close together, making for little room to expand or space to spread out. We must be polite and friendly to each other, or we would all tear each other’s throats out,” Zevran responded, pushing Zamitie’s door open. “Antivans cannot afford to be surly, and the culture reflects this. We have only the strength of our peers to bear us up, and if any of us were needlessly rude...well. It is not as though if we have some issue with another we can up and leave with any ease. There is only so much space for so many people.”

Zamitie was waiting for them in the front room. Upon a table sat a tall glass pitcher with a long neck and metal bowl atop it, hoses sheathed in woven fabric protruding from it. A bubbling noise came as the woman drew heavily on a hose, a haze of smoke seeping from her nostrils making her look like nothing so much as a dragon perched in relaxed grace. Miolanai toed off her ankle boots by the door as was the custom, she had learned. Zevran didn’t follow suit, but Zamitie didn’t scold him for it.

“I knew I would see you both today,” Zamitie murmured, waving a languorous hand that flashed silver and gem-colors from each ringed finger. “Sit and make yourself comfortable, _mija_. _Gato_ , leave her in my care and see to yourself, for once.”

Zevran bowed low, crossing his arms over his chest, “Your wish, then. I shall return later.”

Startled, Miolanai began to turn towards him to ask him where he was going, but he was gone already. Uncomfortable, she realized that this was the first time since Zevran had come into her service that he had willingly left her utterly alone. Moving to a cushion, she sat watching the shaman run a hand through her hair, which was a crimson sheaf of loosely bound ropes that spilled around her broad shoulders and down her chest to her waist. A carmine tunic-dress left a deep ‘v’ of skin showing; tattoos painted over the flesh, swirled their way under the edges of the material. The black pantaloons gaped at slitted thighs, displaying even more ink. Zamitie truly was handsome, and if she had been a man, even at her clearly advanced age, could have given Zevran a run for his money on attractiveness.

An amused chuckle, burnt with that same odd burr that Zevran had, thrummed the air, accompanied by another billow of fragrant smoke. “I was a whore long enough to know quite well what an appreciative look means, _mija_. It is interesting that I still receive them. Particularly from the likes of you.”

Straightening, caught staring, Miolanai had the grace to flush. “Didn’t mean any disrespect, was just...surprised. Zev said that you were the one who raised him...” She didn’t add the fact that he was old as dirt, so that meant she was even older still.

“Hmm, yes, and I am the one who delivered him into this world, blue-skinned with death and covered in his mother’s blood.” She arched languidly, like a feline, “So I am quite old, almost as old as his mother would have been had she not demanded I use her life force to save him. Time has been kind though, giving to me in measures equal to that which it takes.”

“You...used blood magic?” Miolanai asked curiously. She leaned forward, reaching to pour tea into the cups on the tray that sat beside the odd device that she had divined was some sort of pipe.

The slate eyes shimmered softly with their own light, “Your Chantry knows so little, _mija_. Locking away those with any power is not because they fear maleficars, but because they do not wish to relinquish any of their control. That is how history goes....”

“And what? Spread fear to the common populace? I’ve seen what blood magic can do firsthand,” she said, shaking her head, remembering Avernus. Even if the man had had good reasons, it still resulted in demons crossing the barrier of the Veil, and that was to say nothing of what the Countess had done to Black Marsh or what Uldred had done to the Circle. “Even in the hands of the well meanin’ and the just, it can be twisted, and so many who are neither just nor well meaning turn to it.”

“Throw a bomb into a crowd of people, what happens?” Reaching down for a glass, the old woman sipped delicately, “They die. But throw a bomb into a knot of darkspawn, they too die. Is the bomb dangerous then, or the person who uses it to a particular end? All things can be made into something dangerous. Everything has uses such as that. Blood magic in the hands of the Imperium is much the same.” Zamitie set her cup down, eyeing her with that weighty, measuring gaze that was neutral, absent of all judgements, simply taking in all that was around her and remembering it. Clearly, this was a woman who did not believe in ‘right and wrong’ in the terms of ‘good and evil’, the way most did. “Yet the Imperium fights for its life, and the White Divine has a stranglehold on the lyrium trade. Can you blame them for turning to any tool to survive? Also, think what would happen should the Imperium fall to Par Vollen?”

Miolanai did think for a moment, remembering Sten and his single-minded determination, that unwavering drive. Sten himself was her friend, someone she cared for very deeply, but a whole country of Qunari gaining a foothold in the mainlands of Thedas...

“They would have a launch point into Nevarra, Antiva, Orlais...” she breathed in awe. “The Tevinter – no matter that they differ in views – they’re part of what holds the line against our destruction.”

Zamitie’s smile was slight, “And this leaves a quandary for you, does it not? Without a source for magic, Tevinter will fall, and like a game of bone pieces made into a maze, if they fall, it will ripple outwards, and we _all_ will fall.”

Shuddering, Miolanai drank deeply from her own glass, the taste of roses light and delicate. “Why won’t the White Divine do anythin’, then?”

“Power, control. Just as the mages in their Tower prisons, the cowed populace fearing the threat of demons...” She gestured, so as to encompass all of Thedas. “Kings, queens and empresses – they all bow to the Chantry, worried for their immortal souls, begging for the return of an uncaring Maker who abandoned them to their fates in a tizzy because we did not do exactly as He wished. It is a heady thing, power, tempting and seductive. It is far easier to bask in power than to use it in a way that may lessen its effects for your own benefit, rather than benefiting the whole.” Her low laugh was throaty, vibrating with and secure in its own power. “Demons court me in the Fade just as they do to any with a glimmer of Talent. It is my own choice to turn them aside. Sometimes I may learn from them, as they desperately seek to make me lower my defenses or change my mind. That does not mean I wield my talents willy-nilly, like a flailing child.”

“You sound like Morrigan.” For a moment, she wished her friend had learned at Zamitie’s knee, rather than Flemeth’s. How much happier would the Chasind have been? And yet Morrigan had still been a strong, good woman, filled with an honour that had made her one of the most pure people Miolanai had known. “But she was taught that only power has meanin’.”

“Of course it is the only thing that has meaning, _mija_. Power in choice, in thought and deed. Power need not be a sledgehammer to be effective. Love is a power, so is friendship. All things are power. It only takes eyes to see it and a mind open enough to reach for it.” Bells in her hair sang as she stood up, setting the rope she had been sucking on aside. “I use the tools available to me not for my own good, but for those around me. In turn, I find that my own welfare is still taken care of. It is true I am not raised upon a dais and held over the heads of those that I am stronger than, but I live amongst, while still separate, and in some ways I am loved for my power. The love, respect and reverence I receive widens my strength and circle of influence.” A steady, strong hand was held out to her. “Come now, my child, it is time for me to do my Work.”

Taking Zamitie’s hand, Miolanai was drawn up, surprised by just how strong the _shem_ was. “I thought Zev was just leavin’ me here to be babysat.”

Zamitie smiled enigmatically. “He did not plan on leaving you, it is I who told him to leave. _Mi gatito_ is worn thin with worry. I can see it, though he would never complain. A moment to himself will do him some good.”

Drawn into the room where Zamitie had pierced her ears, Miolanai felt her brow furrow with confusion, “Worry? He seems fine to me. As annoyin’ as usual.”

“Ah, _mija_ , you are unobservant.” Hands went to her short hair, pulling out the little flower shaped clips that she had taken to using to keep the unruly strands from her face, “His goal is to keep you healthy and safe. If he had been born in my clan, I would have taken him as a true apprentice. He has no magic of his own, but that does not mean he could not be a healer. It is his way, perhaps an imprint of my magic on him at his birth. Healing is his art.”

Miolanai blinked up at Zamitie, who towered over her by almost two heads, “I thought killin’ was his art.”

“Life and death are the same circle, the same thread.” Long fingers began plucking off the jewelry that Zevran had made her wear, setting it aside, “Make no mistake, _mi gatito_ is a healer in all the senses of the word. Sa’id was rather upset with himself for not beating the Guild to purchasing him. But it matters not, his calling has been found. I knew he was destined for it once I read the bones, and so I never sought to persuade Sa’id to buy him.”

Somehow unsurprised by Zamitie slowly disrobing her, Miolanai stood still, allowing it, “You never say my name, or Zevran’s.”

“I am a shaman, _mija_ , and if I say a person’s name, I gain power over them.” Dry, warm and worn smooth palms brushed over Miolanai’s bare shoulders, examining her. “I only say the names of the dead, unless I wish to use my power to command someone. It is an ill omen to say the name of the living if I know them well. For to say their name, I must exercise power, else I open them up to attack.”

Barely twitching when her pants were pulled down her hips, she asked, “From what? Demons?”

“Yes, child. Demons, and other outside forces.” Standing up again, Zamitie urged her to step free of the pile of clothes outside the sigil in the floor. “There are far more than the limits of what the Chantry teaches. In their ignorance, they leave all open for attack. It is best to know of dangers and how to counter them rather than to willfully ignore them. Banning everything outright the way they do is the height of folly.”

Zamitie circled Miolanai, who kept her spine ramrod straight, shoulders squared. The touch of hands over her back and thighs, down her chest to her belly and hips was not a sensual thing. It was firm, but a mix of clinical, kind and exploratory. Finally the _pintore_ pulled her over the sigils’ edge, which flared softly.

“Lay down on your stomach, Miolanai.” The fact that Zamitie used her name made her shiver. “It is time to Work upon your canvas, to heal some of the damage.”

Swallowing, Miolanai stretched out, “What...are you gonna do?”

More soft chiming came as Zamitie gathered her hair up, twisting it out of the way. “Lay my marks into your flesh.” Palms pressed to her buttocks, curling up along her sides, over her hips, “Here. They will ward off the little things that attack the body but leave no mark.”

Along her back unguent was smeared, down her whole body, which was worked in with strong fingers, pushing the tension from her muscles. Somewhat against her will, Miolanai found herself relaxing, breathing deeply of the scent in the air. The witch’s perfume was the same as last time, but spicier, with a hot pepper hint. 

Zamitie set a few things along her spine; what they were, exactly, Miolanai wasn’t sure. “I shall begin now. Relax or talk, but be at peace. It may burn or itch or sting, each person’s experience is different.”

That was all the warning she had before a light tapping sound came. “Wha...” Sucking in a sharp breath, Miolanai felt a sharp pinprick, but the woman’s rhythm was steady and fast. “Ouch?”

“‘Ouch?’” Zamitie’s voice chuckled around the word. “You sound so uncertain.”

Rolling her face on the pillow to the other side, Miolanai tried to explain. “It...stings a little. But not too badly. Different.”

They were quiet for a time but for the sound of rapid tapping that paused as Zamitie went to the little bowls – that’s what Miolanai had decided they were – for what was probably ink, before resuming. 

“Tell me, Miolanai, what is it about _mi gatito_ that vexes you so?” The air became strange, what felt like one of Wynne’s healing spells but different, like little pin pricking thorns scratching at her skin so lightly that they didn’t break skin.

Eyes closed, the Warden hummed, “He tells me what to do all the time.”

“Oh? And what does he tell you to do?” There was brisk rubbing over a burning section of her buttocks.

“He tells me what I should wear, how I should act, how to eat – well that one makes sense, otherwise I’d choke on the peppers,” she complained, sighing. 

The smile in Zamitie’s voice was clear, “And why do you think he would do such a thing, wild little Warden?”

“Don’t wanna think ‘bout it,” Miolanai responded, mumbling. 

“And why would that be?” Zamitie prompted, refusing to be put off.

Miolanai sighed, “Because it’ll make sense, and I don’t want him to make sense.”

She could feel Zamitie shaking her head; something with the magic in the air, it was like she was...connected to the _pintore_ somehow, like the cord that connects infant to mother in the womb, so she seemed to be feeling an echo of each of Zamitie’s movements and expressions. Not intensely, but she did feel them. 

“You are attracted to him.” Something tugged at Miolanai, exploring, just as the needle was continuously tapped into her flesh. “This I see and understand. What I do not is why this disturbs you so.”

“He’s old,” Miolanai replied, grunting. “Old ‘nough to be my father.”

Surprise rippled through the odd strand that was spun out between them. “And that makes you resent him? I can say for a certainty that _mi gatito dorado_ only tells you things to help you. Not to tell you that you are wrong-headed, but that he may give you tools for your own care, to make you both equal.” The woman made an exasperated sound. “Age is nothing more than a number. I know people a third of my age who have lived and experienced far more than I. He is one of them.”

“And if he were to tell _you_ what to do?” Miolanai countered. 

“If he had a reason or more experience in it, I would listen.” There was a faint sunburn sensation on her bottom that was beginning to spiral up towards her waist. “I always listen to him, and on the occasions he sees fit to counsel me, my ears are open, as is my mind. 

Now that did and didn’t make sense. 

“But you’re...you’re...” Miolanai fumbled for a word.

“Old enough to be his mother? Certainly.” There was another of those brief pauses. “Ancient, by your estimation, but still worth a good long look.”

Blushing furiously, Miolanai hid her face in the pillow, “I s’pose.”

The indelicate snort was eloquent, “Tell me why you are upset with him currently.”

“He’s distractin’ me all the time.” The admission just slipped free. “Always walkin’ ‘round half-dressed, showin’ off. Talkin’ all smart, like ‘Oh hey look at me, I’m so wise, and I know everythin’, and you know you want me to do wicked stuff to you because everyone wants me to, tralalalalaaa’. It’s aggravatin’.” Sighing mournfully, Miolanai wondered about why, even in the tub, Zevran had worn that wristwrap. She was thinking about it so hard, that she didn’t realize Zamitie had asked her something. Giving a little start, she asked, “Huh? What? I’m sorry.”

“I wished to know what you were thinking that caused that adorable little pout you were just making,” Zamitie replied, her tone cajoling, slightly teasing. “In that moment, you so reminded me of my daughter when she was little.”

Uncomfortable, the elf squirmed, trying to change the subject. “Daughter?”

“Oh?” Zamitie’s tone was arch. “You play games, and you squirm just like her when she did not wish to tell me something. I propose a trade, you tell me what it is that has you blushing, squirming and drifting off to imaginary lands, and I shall tell you about my daughter.”

Miolanai stalled as much as she could, but she knew she would tell. “Um...well...he was...he was bein’ distractin’. Again. But...but in my head. And bein’ easy on the eyes. Dirty, nasty old man.” Growling querulously, she said, “I don’t even _like_ old men! Particularly ones old ‘nough to be my daddy!”

**Author's Note:**

> There's language and some style inconsistencies in this one, as I had switched beta readers several times from the beginning of this series and they all wanted things to look/flow differently. I do plan to go back and make things a bit more even, so I apologize for that.


End file.
